


enkindle the wings (of a butterfly)

by kurgaya



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Friendship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Romance, Royal Guard/Zero Division, Slow Build, Strangers to Lovers, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 103,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something pitter-patters across the roof. He ignores it, imagining a bird, and then almost topples over the windowsill when a swarm of hell butterflies take flight, flickering above his head like a wispy cloud of storms.</p><p>Snow moves in the corner of his vision like a drape, or a cloak, or perhaps even a kimono –</p><p>“Wait!” Ichigo shouts, twisting to get a better look, but as blood rushes in his ears and his heart pounds, a chaotic exhilaration, there’s no further sight of whatever or whoever it had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ichigo I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yukine-the-yukibae](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yukine-the-yukibae), [kiniyakkii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiniyakkii/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story begins just before Ichigo gains his shinigami powers for the first time, and pretty much follows the canon timeline up to a point.
> 
> This story is dedicated to [this lovely person](http://yukine-the-yukibae.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, whose tags inspired me to just let this plot run wild, and to kiniyakkii, for letting me yell into her inbox and then yelling back at me and obliterating my writer's block with headcanons and a hella load of capslock and exclamation marks :)
> 
> This story can also be found on FF.net & tumblr.

 

For a long time, Ichigo doesn’t question the butterflies.

They are not particularly many in number – or few, one could argue – and they never have been. Elegant though they may be – tiny shadows of winter throughout the spring, and the persistence of the summer sun as autumn begins to slumber – Ichigo knows nothing of their nature bar the unrelenting flutters of their wings and the darkness of their shape; flickers in the corner of his eyes. Karakura hosts them throughout the year, but they seem to come and go as they please. Sometimes they are a dawn swarm, hundreds of them flocking across the sky like an army, but more often than not they pass in moonlight, like a lingering solider on the edge of the world.

Occasionally, he wonders where they’re going, or from what strange land they hail. Mostly, he ponders out of boredom, trekking back from school with his exhaustion slung over one shoulder and his feet trailing stress into the ground. Wildlife is abundant in the town (if one knows where to look), and Ichigo has witnessed the more than enough of the abstract of life (and death) to worry about the habits of an insect.

At the end of the day, they are simply butterflies, and if no one seems to notice that the birds hunt around them, and that the wind doesn’t touch them, then that is not their concern. Ichigo, for one, though attuned to the otherworldly realm he may be, does not falter in their presence. Over time, he learns to distinguish between the living and the dead, and he becomes familiar with the ghosts that walk the town. Not once does it occur to him that there may be something beyond the silent butterfly flutters; something powerful and old, and endlessly young, and something waiting in the shadows of his life.

Ghosts are one thing – but _gods_ …?

That is another matter entirely.

 

 

 

And then – they meet.

 

 

 

 _Oh_ , their worlds quite literally collide.

 

 

 

The only warning that Ichigo receives is one he doesn’t recognise; a bell chiming in the summer breeze, the sun’s kiss into the air, and a speck of darkness in his vision as a butterfly flutters past. He blinks at it, almost too slow to catch its minute wobble, and wrenches an earphone out as if to question the creature’s intentions, or as if it has any intentions towards him to speak of. Yet, it is gone by the time he turns to look, and instead his attention is enraptured as a building down the street breaks open, smashing glass and concrete and brick into the road.

There is no shockwave, smoke, or fire. _Explosion_ is not the definition that Ichigo should give, but it is the only one he can as his music rises into screams; car tires squealing in terror, and the thundering footsteps of humankind fleeing across the shattered footpath. Dropping everything – his bag, iPod, jacket, and sanity – Ichigo shoves his way down the street of petrified people, thoughts of first aid driving his feet and shouting safety from his tongue.

And then he sees it. A colossal mass looming over the town; a nightmare spire against the golden hues of day. It is a tower of impossibility – no, a monster of unimaginable form, but in reality it stands over the crumbling street, and one gigantic foot rises again to kick their insignificant lives away.

Ichigo has no words to describe it, and so he yells to the people around him, demanding that they escape. Nobody so much as glances up towards the demonic darkness – shock, perhaps, or ignorance, or maybe there is more to the world in-between the realms of life and death than Ichigo has ever wanted to believe.

The creature’s foot slams down upon the earth, and the streets quake beneath its tremendous weight. People continue to scream, crying with a fear so primal that it only implores them to flee. They push past Ichigo, their vision entrapped upon their own two feet, leaving the teenager to stand on the sidewalk with his mouth agape, rubble dirtying his orange hair and blood trickling down his face. His school uniform is torn and his body pulses in the early anger of a bruise, but he does not move. Fear holds him steady, locking him to the ground. Above him, the monster lifts its face of bone and opens jaws of daggers and knives to call a shriek about the town.

Ichigo covers his ears and doubles over, trying to move away from the noise. Another bell chimes in the distance, a song of welcoming and peace, but it passes unheard for the human.

A call rings out, like a summoning, and a butterfly sails past Ichigo’s nose.

He blinks at it, fast enough to catch it this time – but not fast enough to witness the battle; a blade and a blur of white, and the monster dissolves into the afternoon, crashing down onto the earth in a spiritual silence of dust.

There is a touch of snow upon Ichigo’s cheek, and then nothing at all.

He wakes some streets away, slumped against a lamppost. Although his possessions are stacked neatly beside him, and his jacket folded on top of his bag, Ichigo checks himself for injury as he clambers to his feet. His shirt is still shredded from the shards of shrapnel, but the teenager finds himself to be _less_ injured than previously – cheek healed, muscles relaxed, and bruises faded, it is almost as if he dreamed the whole encounter.

Ichigo scoops up his bag and checks his for wallet, phone, and keys. Even his iPod is there, tucked into the side pocket and earphones coiled around the device to tidy it away.

There is nobody around to thank – or punch, or question the sanity of – so with his thoughts reeling from the bizarreness of the afternoon, and the tatters of his shirt the only evidence of his mind, Ichigo goes home. He doesn’t reveal his thoughts about the creature to anyone, but then as the days pass and nobody in the _entire town_ says anything about it, he figures he has a good reason. News about the street’s destruction is inevitable, and Ichigo finds himself spending more time in the living room to catch snippets of the report. Neither of the usual channels seems to be able to discern the cause of the damage – an explosion is what they’re chalking it down to, but Ichigo knows better.

Talking about what he saw is the last thing on his mind. There is some doubt of his perceptions in the back of Ichigo’s head; his father’s voice, ignorant of the otherworldly reality. It’s not Isshin’s fault that he cannot see the souls that roam the town, but Ichigo labels the questioning words as his father’s anyway, and tries not to think that he’s going mad.

There’s no one he can ask about the creature – hollow eyed and hollow hearted – and so he keeps his silence. Fifteen is an age of change anyway, and there are more pressing matters to concern himself with. Classwork is piling up, and his peers are growing up. The monster that Ichigo had seen is gone now at any least – a single swoop of _something_ ; a second, time blinking away a moment, and it had disappeared.

Something had stopped it.

Something had _killed_ it.

He dwells on it for weeks. It is difficult focusing his thoughts elsewhere when the possibility of there being _more_ in the world (the _other_ world – the _next_ world) enthrals his mind. Religion is not in his nature, his family, or his life, but Ichigo cannot help but wonder how it works – how _death_ works. Is there oblivion? Or is there something _divine_ out there – something that keeps the balance?

Something… godly… perhaps?

Scepticism clouds his thoughts. He refuses to believe in something that he hasn’t seen, and if there _is_ a force out there that shares the world with ghosts and souls and monsters that normal people cannot fathom, then why has Ichigo never seen it before?

He has no leads bar what he can remember of the creature, so he goes to the only other person that he knows who may have inkling into this supernatural dilemma.

“…Monsters?” the young girl echoes, tilting her wispy, translucent head at his question. Her childish features twist in thought, the ethereal blood stuck to her cheek a permanent addition to her pale, seven year old complexion. “I don’t know… what do they look like? Are they big?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo says as he arranges the vase by the streetlight – freshly picked flowers always brighten her day, and it’s the least he can do while she hovers around in delight at his presence. “I’ve only seen one, but its entire body was black. I guess it was humanoid in a way – it was tall, and it stood on two legs, but it made a sound I’ve never heard before. Nobody else could see it, so I figured it was a ghost or something.”

The spirit hums as her body bobs around like a puppy excited to play. Two pigtails, a blond faded by death, swish at the motions, and Ichigo waits patiently while she ponders the world in which she exists. He doesn’t know how long she has been parted from life, but she is still more likely to have witnessed an event as strange as his than the average breathing being.

“Oh! I have seen one!”

Ichigo startles, surprised at his immediate success. “You have?”

“Yes!” the girl replies, laughing at his hopeful expression. “It was… a few days ago, I think. She wasn’t really _that_ tall – but she was taller than me! – and she was wearing this strange black outfit… and she had black hair! She was pretty.”

The teenager blinks at the declaration and straightens up from his crouch. Colourless eyes follow his ascent, still shining with happiness even in death. “Wait…” he says, running her words over in his head again. “ _She_?”

The ghost nods, certain in her testimony. “She didn’t see me, but I could see her! I was hiding at the end of the street. She was _really_ quiet, and she was talking to a _butterfly_. I thought it was odd, but…”

She shrugs as if to say, _well who am I to talk?_

Possibilities whizzing through his mind, Ichigo wisely doesn’t mention the unfortunate state of their conversation when he asks, “Was it a _black_ butterfly by any chance?”

“You’ve seen them too!” the girl squeals, flapping her arms in a way that suggests that, for a moment, she entertains the idea of hugging him. “Aren’t they pretty?”

That’s not a word that Ichigo would usually assign to an – apparently unworldly – butterfly, but he has grown used to the unwavering enthusiasm of pre-adolescent girls as an older brother. Laughing off his unease with the exchange, he chats with the ghost for a while longer. She doesn’t appear to notice the shift in his mood, but Ichigo has perfected that part of his façade as well.

She waves him goodbye when he notices the lateness of the hour. Thanking him for the flowers is an unnecessary custom between them, but Ichigo finds himself smiling on the way home despite burdened with the new revelations slotting their way into the jigsaw in his mind. Ghosts have always been at the forefront of his life – so much so that the extent of their oddity is not something that he has ever taken the time to consider. The departed are just _there_ ; entities as abundant in their reality as the living, so how would questioning their nature assist in his life in any way? Granted, Ichigo imagines himself the minority when it comes to _seeing_ them, but he has never tested this – he has never cared enough to.

Now his perceptions of the otherworld are changing. Perhaps he _should_ have taken a philosophical slant on his life – and if he had, would he be as ignorant as he is now? There are monsters roaming the streets of Karakura – monsters capable of interacting with the world and destroying _buildings_ , causing harm. Ichigo’s lack of understanding about them discomforts him. If he knew more, could he share his knowledge? Would there be people willing to listen?

Could he protect them?

He cannot be sure, but as he slips off his shoes, dodges a flying kick from his father, and hears his sisters’ complementary calls of excitement and boredom from the kitchen table, Ichigo figures the only thing he can do is try.

 

 

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ichigo blurts, interrupting both his attempts at smearing the marker moustache from his face and the shinigami’s rabbit-crazed explanation. “Forget about the soul stuff – I don’t care about how your bunnies _purify the dead_ or whatever. What about the butterflies? Can you tell me about those?”

The dead chick in the shihakushō looks affronted for a second, small hands clenching around the edges of the sketchbook, and Ichigo almost regrets his blatant dismissal of her drawings. Then her expression creases, and thought deepens her eyebrows and lips rather than offence. Lavender inquisitiveness flicks over his scowl; half-hidden beneath his fringe, a honey-dipped expression.

Ichigo huffs into the carpet and wishes, once again, that he wasn’t bound to the floor by some weird rope of light. Ghosts he can understand, and even monsters aren’t that much of a stretch anymore, but magic is going a bit too far.

“The black ones. Small – you know – _look exactly like butterflies_ ,” he elaborates, hoping he doesn’t sound too ridiculous. The only reason he dares to mention it because he had witnessed one bid the shinigami into the room with a gentle flutter; solid evidence that they’re somehow related, and further clarification of the ghost girl’s description of the _monster_ that she’d seen.

(He wouldn’t associate this midget with anything monstrous, but then again the capabilities of her sword could raise a lot of questions).

“The hell butterflies?” the shinigami girl questions, and Ichigo makes an _uh-huh_ noise as if he was supposed to know their name. “They’re a communicative device within the Seireitei, but they also guide shinigami between Soul Society and the human world. I was assigned one to travel here.”

She looks sceptical. Ichigo can appreciate that – their conversation is progressing in a backwards fashion now; tied up on the floor with a spiritual being sitting on his bed, _Ichigo_ has more reason to be feeling out of his depth.

“You mean, every shinigami gets one when they come here? So what about a swarm of them?” he presses, deepening her dazed expression. “Dozens, I mean. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds? No – that – _no_. That wouldn’t happen.” She looks certain in herself, and Ichigo bites back a curse at the dead-end. “That many shinigami are never assigned to a single place at once. It’s likely that you’ve just been mistaken. Hell butterflies rarely leave their allocated officer, so there would be no reason for –”

A howl shatters through the window, a familiar shriek reverberating around the house. The shinigami launches to her feet just as Ichigo’s bedroom door swings open; splattered with the blistering reds of a sun and shadows falling across her pained expression, Yuzu stumbles to her knees. She wheezes a word that may have been a name, but beyond the terrible wailing of the monster in the street and his sister’s unconscious form, Ichigo is aware of nothing in the moment it takes the shinigami to grasp the danger around them.

“Dammit,” she curses, bolting from the room in a blur of black and moonlight.

Ichigo listens to her footsteps thundering down the stairs in blank comprehension. Terror grips his chest as his sister bleeds out on the carpet before him, but the shinigami’s spell holds firm as he struggles against it, arms locked behind his back. An unearthly crash from somewhere downstairs wakes the night, and the floor rocks like an earthquake decimating their peaceful home. Outside, the monster – the Hollow, whatever it is – emits a low, guttural sound, and Ichigo roars back it at, glancing around his room in a desperate search for something that could free him. The shinigami has left nothing of her otherworldly possessions, and Ichigo curses, pushing against the flickering bonds. He’ll have to break it himself, he realises, and he assures himself of the possibility as screams echo through the house and Yuzu gasps her life away just a few feet out of reach.

“Fucking hell, fucking – _fuck_ , come on!”

His knees slam to the floor and something cracks; his shoulder, the window, the mask of bone and terror outside, Ichigo doesn’t know, but golden fire flashes around the room and his arms are free, his body is lurching, and his feet are _throwing_ him into the hallway. Yuzu has a pulse, Karin is screaming, and their father is crumbled broken upon the floor, and Ichigo picks up a chair because it’s the only thing he can think to do and –

Bells chime.

Wings flutter; tiny movements far away.

Fate lifts its sword, and Ichigo swings it down.

 

 

 

“What a mess,” grumbles a voice, an icy forewarning at the edge of Ichigo’s consciousness. He feels like he’s moving, or being moved, but he’s not certain – there has been no time to be certain; only scared, and resolute, perhaps, and safe (unsafe) in the knowledge that his world is about to change.

Ichigo tries to open his eyes, but his head feels heavy. There’s the weight of new responsibility on his mind and the power of a soul unleased sitting on his chest; his ribs ache in fractures and bruises, but his heart pounds strong – stronger than it ever has been. As long as his family is okay then he will heal, he knows, and the voice above him laments a sigh as if Ichigo had asked the question aloud.

“Your family are well,” says the stranger, murmuring softly. “Sleep – and stop _squirming_. Your exponential rate of growth is going to be the _death_ of me, I swear. It’s not like you don’t cause enough trouble as it is.”

The words are lost to Ichigo like a whisper in the snow, but they provide a quiet comfort to his hazy awareness; an assurance that spring hope will come after winter has passed.

“Honestly,” sighs the voice, an exasperated groan of a man questioning his life choices. “ _Teenagers_.”

 

 

 

Morning arrives just as any other dawn. Ichigo groans at the sound of his alarm and smacks his hand around to silence it; a futile motion, since he purposely leaves it out of reach, but it still takes him a long moment of denial to heave himself out of bed. Yawning, the teenager stretches his arms above his head and slings the duvet away. Only a single thought is spared for the odd ache to his limbs, but he decides to resolve the problem in the shower and pads across the room, too-long pyjamas shuffling to his feet warm.

The alarm quietens with a _click_. Outside, the spring daylight is twittering peacefully, birdsong welcoming the sunrise. Ichigo yawns again to clear the sleep from his mind and rubs his neck, cringing at the twinge of his muscles as they protest at the effort. Wondering what he had been doing the night before to warrant such exhaustion, Ichigo sticks his head out into the hallway to see if either of his sisters are hogging the shower. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were true, although the fact that he can’t hear Yuzu singing at the top of her lungs implies that –

Blood flashes across his vision, a dark splash of scarlet blurring his sight. His bedroom door _cracks_ against the doorframe, and vehement echoes of the midnight hour resound around the room. He bites back a yell and stumbles over his trousers, tripping over Yuzu’s lifeless body in the hallway, gone now, but memory a permanent stain in Ichigo’s mind.

Hitting the floor jolts away the last of his confusion. The ceiling light shines down at him, laughing at his pained grimace, and Ichigo scowls up at it. Grumbling, the teenager scans the room, taking in any remaining abnormalities from the night before. He remembers now – the shinigami burglar, the magic spell, and the Hollow that had stormed through their house. His family had been in danger – they had _all_ been in danger – and he had accepted the shinigami’s powers to save them.

So where was she? (The warrior – Rukia… Kuchiki?)

And how had Ichigo gotten back into his bed?

“Onii-chan,” comes a call from outside, high pitched and almost shouting with concern. “Are you awake?”

Ichigo clambers to his feet and pitches himself onto his bed, nearly head butting the windows in his haste to wrench them open. In the street below stands his sister, unharmed in her school uniform and seemingly unaware of the night’s events. In her hands, she holds a cup of tea, and she motions to it with a smile when he appears.

“Good morning onii-chan!” Yuzu cries, lifting the cup towards him despite the impossible distance between them. “I’ve made you some tea. You need to come and see the house – there’s a great big hole in the wall!”

She looks unconditionally delighted at this, as if an easier access to the street from the living room is exactly what their home needed.

“We must have all slept through it!” she goes on, and it is only then that her expression loses some of its happiness; confusion flashes across her face and her eyes acquire a deep, lost glaze, as if she is suddenly unsure of where she is. “I wonder how it happened…”

 _It was a truck_ , declares a voice unlike Ichigo’s own; a sweet, sickly voice, and one he feels compelled to listen to as the words are forced upon his tongue;

“A truck, I think,” Ichigo finds himself blurting, and he reasons that he must be correct in his assumptions because Yuzu’s face lights up in comprehension.

“Wow!” she agrees, nearly spilling the tea with her enthusiasm, memories slotting into place. “It’s so lucky that we’re not hurt! Can you believe it?”

Ichigo has no response for that other than an astounded, “Yeah.” It sounds flat even before it leaves his mouth, but Yuzu doesn’t seem to notice as she looks on excitedly, repeating her urging that the tea is waiting for him. Figuring it best not to question his family’s apparent memories, Ichigo promises to join them in a moment. He wants to check the house for the shinigami first, and he begins with his bedroom, glancing over his shoulder as if she has been hiding all along. It comes as no surprise to find the room vacant of supernatural activity – except his own, perhaps – but Ichigo reminds distrustful as he heaves a sigh and reaches out to close the window.

Something pitter-patters across the roof. He ignores it, imagining a bird, and then almost topples over the windowsill when a swarm of butterflies – hell butterflies? – take flight, flickering above his head like a wispy cloud of storms.

Snow moves in the corner of his vision like a drape, or a cloak, or perhaps even a kimono –

“Wait!” Ichigo shouts, twisting to get a better look, but as blood rushes in his ears and his heart pounds, a chaotic exhilaration, there’s no further sight of whatever or whoever it had been.

Instead, he receives an affronted huff from his sister, carefully masked by her startled, “What?”

Ichigo feels the tips of his ears warm with embarrassment. “Err,” he says, having entirely forgotten about Yuzu’s request. Words tumble around his mouth like a tombola, and he can only hope that his syntax makes sense when he adds, “Is there sugar in that?”

Yuzu glances down at the tea, and then back up at her brother.

“You never take it with sugar,” she says, her tone more of a reminder than a question.

“Oh – yeah,” Ichigo says stupidly. “Ignore me.”

She shrugs and does just that. Ichigo cringes, mortified, and wishes it didn’t hurt to know that his sister takes after him in such an unfortunate way. He ducks back inside of his room and grabs his dressing gown, vowing to unearth the mystery of the butterflies after breakfast. Moreover, he should probably try to locate Rukia as well – he still has questions, and she’s currently the most substantial source of answers. In addition, her injuries were severe, and Ichigo hopes she is well.

She had saved his family last night, and the least she deserves is thanks.

 

 

 

“So,” Rukia says, breaking her sentence with an unnecessarily violent slurp of the apple juice. Now that she has mastered the art of using a straw – a _straw_ for god’s sake – the however-old shinigami is swiftly moving up in the world. Ichigo envisions that their next challenge will drag them to a MacDonald’s by the end of the week, and he’s not sure if that’s something to look forward to or not. “You’re being stalked by hell butterflies.”

Her words are quiet enough, dropped low to prevent their circle of teenagers from overhearing, but Ichigo hears her laughter loud and clear. He scowls and gives his lunch a particularly scornful jab, wondering why the world has decided that forcing companionship between him and the only shinigami alive who isn’t scared of his expression (debatable – his sample size is limited) is a good idea. Rukia has been living in his closet for less than a month, and she’s already a permanent addition to the wacky ways of the Kurosaki family. Ichigo isn’t sure how she’s still sane, to be honest.

He’s not sure how _he’s_ still sane.

“I wouldn’t call it _stalking_ ,” he argues, trying to dispel the image of butterfly ninjas or whatever else Rukia has tumbling around her mind. It’s probably not an incorrect notion by any means, but Ichigo would rather reserve judgement until he finds out precisely why the hell butterflies flock towards him.

Rukia laughs with her eyes and smothers her smile behind the juice carton. “Well, _I_ would call it stalking,” she replies, looking pleased with herself. Amusement has replaced her previous suspicion over the hell butterflies, but Ichigo only imagines that’s because she’s yet to _see_ any for herself. “But really, it could be worse.”

As one, they turn towards the largest, softest member of the group and the caged cockatiel chatting away before him. Chad doesn’t appear bothered by the strange turn of events, but he is the only one.

“We need to do something about that,” Ichigo says, frowning at the thought of his friend attracting supernatural danger. Chad may be strong and resolute, but he has never given any indication that he can see the world as Ichigo can. Encountering a curious Hollow is the worst possible outcome with the squeaky cockatiel soul.

“We will,” Rukia says confidently, prodding the juice box towards him. “Just as we will solve _your_ problem as well. Such odd behaviour from the hell butterflies would have been noticed _years_ ago – don’t look at me like that, I _believe_ you – so there must be something else going on.”

“Like what?” Ichigo asks. He munches through a slice of salmon while waiting for the shinigami’s ancient intellect to shine.

Instead, Rukia shrugs. “Absolutely no idea,” she admits shortly, and then she adds with an affronted dip to her eyebrows, “Why are you smiling?”

“No reason,” Ichigo replies.

The dilemma with the cursed cockatiel ends peacefully – for the little boy’s soul, at any least. Ichigo, Rukia, and Chad walk away from the battle like various states of road kill, but they all survive the slimy, bug-like Hollow bombs, and Ichigo considers that a victory. His friend’s unfortunate participation in the cockatiel’s protection results in a situation that Ichigo would rather not explain, but with Rukia glaring daggers at his back and Chad’s ever-silent, unpresumptuous air of confusion, he pulls the giant teenager aside and offers insight into the otherworldly events. Although he cannot see the things that Ichigo refers to, Chad takes the explanation as well as he takes anything, which is magnificently, and promises to be on his guard.

Ichigo’s unwitting involvement with the hell butterflies, on the other hand, doesn’t progress in such a manner. With hindsight, he will look back at this day and deem it largely successful, but at the time it feels like fear, stress and exhaustion rolled into one, and Ichigo is too preoccupied with _not punching Uryū Ishida_ _in the face_ to consider it anything else.

“That is the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard!”

“Hey!” Ichigo shouts, feeling the need to defend his impromptu battle plan from the quincy’s criticism. Granted, cutting the gigantic Hollow into torso-shaped stacks might not be the best idea now that he has seen the futility of it in action, but Ichigo gives himself credit for being the only one to suggest _something_. “I was thinking on my feet! I’d like to see you come up with a better idea!”

He waves the tip of his zanpakuto at the quincy’s frown. Ishida scowls and bats the blade away, preparing to continue with his tirade, and his bow ignites in his hands, tripling in size in a flare of turquoise lightning.

Ichigo stares it, equally impressed and dismayed to see the quincy’s power-boost, and blurts, “Why didn’t you do that before? That’ll be enough to take down this Hollow, right?”

Ishida lifts his gaze from the swirling blue flames of the bow and shoots Ichigo a look that the shinigami struggles to interpret.

“Right?” Ichigo adds weakly, suddenly frightened for his life.

“Wrong,” says the quincy, but the light of realisation upon his face contradicts the pessimism of his statement. “But maybe… Maybe I could use your reiryoku – you leak so much of it as reiatsu that I _might as well_ take advantage –”

“Oi –”

“– Shut up Kurosaki, it’s a good idea. If you had enough control to focus your reiryoku into the tip of your sword, I could use it to power my arrows! The only problem is finding a way to maintain my contact with your blade…”

 _How about I shove it up your arse_ , Ichigo thinks, and he almost wishes he said it aloud when their only other viable option is to bandage the blade to Ishida’s _head_ like an enormous, whacked up unicorn horn. The quincy looks _absurd_ , and Ichigo would laugh if they weren’t amount to be blown to pieces or squashed into the ground.

“And you said _my_ idea was stupid,” he mumbles, giving the sword a pat.

As ridiculous as they likely both seem, Ichigo hopes the plan works. An entire street had almost been decimated the last time he had encountered a Hollow this large. Only the swift arrival of his apparent butterfly-obsessed stalker had saved him, and while a grief-driven quincy and a shinigami without her powers _are_ currently the focus of his attention, Ichigo hasn’t even caught a _glimpse_ of a hell butterfly over the past few weeks. Rukia had hypothesised that the white-clad stranger is avoiding _her_ , but Ichigo has been on his own plenty of times since her arrival, and his swarm of questions are still unanswered.

He can’t rely on an elusive stranger to watch his back for him, so Ichigo is going to have to trust his own power (and therefore Ishida’s) to defeat their colossal opponent this time.

Resolved, the auburn haired wildfire smacks his hand down against the hilt of the sword, causing the quincy to wobble unsteadily on his knees. “You ready for this?” he asks over Ishida’s complaints.

The quincy grumbles but dutifully prepares to manifest his weapon, and above them, the Hollow begins to emit a sound of bones crackling, of teeth crunching like the fury of an inferno blitzing through a forest, and a crimson globe of light starts to spiral into shape. Air gushes around the clearing, hurling up plants and stones, and the teenagers can do nothing but stare as the Hollow cracks open its mask and –

Ichigo is moving before conscious thought can halt him. Freeing his sword from Ishida’s head in one swift slice of fabric, he charges forward. The shouts of his companions indistinguishable over the thunderous hissing of whatever power the Hollow is about to release upon them, Ichigo has time for one mad thought of lucidity as he raises his blade above his head and _pushes_ from every brilliant fleck of his soul –

 _Power_ thunders down upon him.

Lightning red and breathing fire explodes around him, refracting along the sharp of his sword. His arms ache with the weight but he stands strong, and he roars, reiatsu overflowing; a volcano spilling magma onto the street. There’s a moment of pure terror – of exhilaration, hope, and _lunacy_ – and then Ichigo hears Ishida bellowing at him from afar; disbelief, he prays, but likely not as the Hollow’s fire cracks around him, spitting embers of energy into his skin. It’s hot, hotter than anything he has ever encountered, and it blazes relentlessly through his defences, scorching away confidence, hair, and flesh.

Dread surges out of his lungs in a yell. His sword wavers – just a fraction before Ichigo steadies himself, but enough for the terrible shrieking in his ears to quieten. Silence swallows his thoughts, the emptiness of fear, but Ichigo will be damned before he submits to his helplessness.

This time – he doesn’t hear the bells, but closer than ever before, they ring, calling winter’s dawn to descend upon the earth. The air about him shivers in the drop of the chill. His hands curl around his blade, seeking an impossible warmth in this impossible cold. Ichigo gasps breaths of snow from frigid lips, and blinks frozen lashes to distinguish the shape before him; a blur, burning at the edges from the Hollow’s wrath, but pristine in its silvery splendour.

In the body of a boy enfolded by moonlight and enswathed in fabrics of snow, a man stands before Ichigo. His hair is wintry white and his eyes are storms of rain against the flames. Displeasure glowers upon his face and curves his lips into the pallor of his skin, but he holds firm against the assault. One arm of boundless robes is lifted above his head, seemingly a futile defence when his sword, elegantly slim in its magnificence, remains sheathed upon his back. Yet the Hollow’s attack arches away from his touch, and with the fire dancing around him in sparking embers and cinders, he looks as though he is holding up the sun.

Ichigo lowers his sword and clutches the smoking steel to his chest. He won’t admit it – not now, not after risking his pride, and probably not ever – but in the presence of the godly figure before him, he feels small all of a sudden. That the man is shorter than he is means nothing. There is supremacy about the stranger that feels unrivalled – he emits such _nothingness_ that it can only be a power that Ichigo is unable to comprehend, and it frightens the teenager just as much as it excites him.

There are _possibilities_ in the otherworld that Ichigo has never considered – but now he wonders, a primal yearning whispering in his mind, if _he_ could tap into such an untameable power. Grinning in a likely entirely inappropriate way when factoring that the streets, his sword, and his _body_ are burning with blackened hisses of pain, Ichigo makes to approach the stranger. He doesn’t know what assistance he can offer, but he is not one to stand idle in the heat of battle. Yet, before questions can be asked and swords can be raised, there is a flash of light, blue where the world is red, and a great, terrible shrieking from the sky, and the stranger whisks Ichigo away before his legs have completed their first step, the Hollow fizzling away into oblivion behind.

Somehow – through means improbable by the laws of physics – their leap lands them atop the Kurosaki clinic. The world takes a second to right before Ichigo’s eyes; stumbling, he falls away from the stranger, but with a vexed tongue click and a swish of fabric, the white-robed figure has caught the teenager’s sleeve before the roof gives way. Ichigo groans at the jolt and tumbles into a steady footing, the burns on his arms stinging. There is no doubt that their encounter has brought them to the other side of town, and he clutches his head, attempting to dispel the faint rush of dizziness.

“Tolerance to the unpleasantness of shunpo will come with practice,” says the man, and though his voice is clipped with ice and layered like a fortress lost to the tundra, there is kindness in his words.

“Shunpo?” Ichigo asks, willing his nausea to subside. He has no idea what just happened – with the Hollow and the teleportation both – but the stranger has dragged him somewhere safe to ask such questions, even if the location was unintentional. Ichigo doubts it – the clinic roof is too specific a location to be anything other than a destination, and he follows his query with a scowl at the implications of that.

“Wait – you’re the one who’s been _stalking me_ ,” he blurts, feeling his thoughts align as the last of his light-headedness fades away. Jolting back into awareness, Ichigo pulls away from the restrained shinigami and lifts his sword; a defensive motion against the shinigami’s sharp, endless gaze. The skin of his hands shriek fiery tones of anger at him, but Ichigo holds firm despite the pain, gritting his teeth to hide his vulnerability in face of the frost-swept stranger.

“Well,” the short man replies, looking faintly affronted. “I wouldn’t call it _stalking_.”

Ichigo blinks, then blinks some more. Before him and releasing a dragon-worthy sigh, the stranger shakes his blizzardy mane, and the whites and silvers that construct his form seem to sharpen with the indignant motion, finalising the appearance of the stalker in Ichigo’s mind.

Unlike Rukia, the winter-walking shinigami is dressed in attire so white that he could be wearing December itself; snow and ice enfolded into a thick, boundless kimono of silvery gold. Where the layers of his various garbs end and begin is indistinguishable, but together they shape clothing as elusive and relentless as an arctic snowstorm. The sleeves are impractical for anything but sitting pretty and getting married (the length of the haori is ridiculous enough to pass as a [_uchikake_](http://www.kimonosource.com/japanese_kimono_information/about_uchikake.htm) for god’s sake) – in fact, _the_ _whole outfit_ is a danger, but the man moves as if he is weightless beneath the beauty, never once tripping over the extended fabric as it trails about his feet. The kimono makes his form seem more substantial than it probably is, but there is no doubt in Ichigo’s mind of the man’s intelligence. His eyes are jades and his face is just as sharp – time has been kind to him, even if his age has not. He looks as if he has seen the worst of the world and he holds himself as if the memories hurt; tense and straight, a perfect posture.

Ichigo adjusts the respectability of his stance despite himself, and the man’s expression flickers with amusement before closing down again, timeless and cold. Empathy rushes over Ichigo; he recognises the look from his childhood – the sadness and blame of a mirror staring back at him, shattered pieces slowly reforming from therapy and care. There is something about the stranger that he can understand – a young, _raw_ strength that resonates with Ichigo, and one that he knows has made them both stronger.

He wonders if the stranger has seen it too, and he wonders if that’s why they’re both here.

“Give me your hands,” says the shinigami, holding out one of his own. There’s nothing particularly threatening about the gesture, but Ichigo hesitates for a second, unwilling to part from his blade. He wonders how Rukia and Ishida are taking his sudden disappearance, and since he wears his heart on his sleeve, the icy shinigami catches the moment of concern.

“ _Please_ ,” adds the stranger, rolling his eyes with the etiquette to give the impression that he is unused to asking twice. “You’re burnt.”

Ichigo sheathes his zanpakuto and winces when he has to peal his bloodied, oozing hands from the hilt. Now that it has been brought to his attention, the teenager comprehends the state of his arms – blotched a flaming red and blackened with bruises scorching through his flesh. His wrists have taken most of the damage, and as he passes over his hands to the cool touch of the stranger, his fingers twitch, nerves frazzled. Pain sizzles up his arms as the last of his adrenaline subsides; Ichigo hisses a whimpering sound that he cannot prevent, and wishes desperately to be rid of the rough, fraying fabric of his sleeves.

Ever so gently, the shinigami-stalker turns Ichigo’s hands over, inspecting the injury. He peels away the torn segments of the shihakushō with a frown, eyes dark as Ichigo groans, unable to watch the blood dribbling clots and dollops down his arm.

“Deep breaths,” soothes the white haired shinigami. He lays one hand over the teenager’s arm and alights it with an apple green glow. Ichigo hisses as pain sears up his arm, but barely a second passes before it begins to ebb away; the light flickers between them, a mint candle contained in the palm of a hand, warming the space between their bodies.

“Who _are_ you?” Ichigo asks.

The stranger remains focused on his work, his fingers somehow managing to fold Ichigo’s skin back together. “That’s not important. Try wiggling your index finger.”

Ichigo does so, scowling despite the lack of pain in his limbs. “I think it _is_. You’ve been following me all this time, haven’t you? With the butterflies? You were there when I got attacked after school.”

No verbal answer is given, but the wintry shinigami inclines his head, a subtle agreement as his snowy fringe flops over his eyes.

“I could just call you _Shiro_ ,” Ichigo continues, probing for a response.

The nickname gains him a huff of laughter. “I’d rather you not,” says the shinigami, reaching for Ichigo’s other hand. “You’re abysmal with names.”

“Well I have to call you _something_. Otherwise you’re just going to be _the stalker_ and that’s going to get really creepy really fast.”

That earns him a glare. “I’m not a stalker,” insists the stalker.

“ _Right_ ,” Ichigo replies, laying his disbelief thickly onto his tongue. “Then what are you?”

“I’m –” The shinigami stops himself, teeth clamping down onto his tongue, and for half a second he seems entirely out of his depth.

Ichigo feels a victorious smile spread across his face; a touchy subject, no doubt, and one of great significance it seems. Yet, he doesn’t push for answers, aware that the stranger is watching his expression with a likely characteristic glower. The man is far too intelligent not to realise when he’s being played.

“Fine, whatever,” grumbles the not-stalker. “Call me _Tōshirō_ if you must.”

“Tōshirō? But that’s almost _Shiro_.”

“So it is,” laughs the-now-dubbed-Tōshirō, pretending not to notice the bizarre logic.

Ginger eyebrows furrow. “…I'm going to find out your name, you know,” Ichigo says, feeling lost. He’s missing something about the conversation, but he can’t discern exactly what with the limited knowledge offered to him.

 _Uh-huh_ , Tōshirō’s eyes reply, light with a jest that only cements Ichigo’s confusion. “I’m sure you will.”

The healing light glows a little brighter, replenishing Ichigo’s exhausted reiryoku and re-stitching his shihakushō together. Realising that his body is painless now, Ichigo clenches and unclenches his hand, awed at the rapid recovery. He will have to ask Rukia if he could learn how to do the green-shining thing with his hands as well – he can imagine it becoming increasingly useful in the future.

Apparently satisfied with his efforts, Tōshirō releases Ichigo’s hands. He remains where he is, comfortably within reach, and this strikes the ginger substitute as odd for somebody so insistent on secrecy and distance. Yet, not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth (especially one that seems so exceptionally _lonely_ all of a sudden), Ichigo rubs the base of his neck in lieu of offering a bow.

Somehow, he feels that bowing wouldn’t quite be appropriate anymore.

“I’m Ichigo Kurosaki,” he says, imagining that this is common knowledge between them, but polite enough to break the silence. “Thanks for – you know.” He waves a hand. “And for the help with the big Hollow.”

“That _big Hollow_ , as you so elegantly put it, was called a Menos Grande. But you’re welcome – it was no concern of mine to be rid of it.”

 _Somehow_ , Ichigo doesn’t say, _I think it was_. Instead, he nods his understanding in the second pause of silence, and files the information away as something else to ask Rukia later.

He has a _lot_ to ask her later.

 

 

 

He never gets the chance.

 

 

 

Ten days is not a long time to replenish his reiryoku and rebuild up his soul from a measly human to something shrouded in the shadows of power, but Ichigo has no other choice. He may not entirely trust the blonde-haired, dagger-eyed shopkeeper, but Kisuke Urahara is the only man capable of providing a feasible route to rescue Rukia (and isn’t that saying a lot), and Ichigo doesn’t have time to be fussy. Rukia is his friend, and Ichigo is prepared to do anything for a chance to stop her execution – including placing his faith in a questionable scientist and his band of equally questionable sidekicks.

The terrifying acts of torture that Urahara has labelled _lessons_ say it all, really.

“So,” Ichigo says, ripping the forehead protector off and giving it a reproachful glare. He runs a hand through his hair, amazed that he doesn’t feel winded. In fact, his present survival in Urahara’s secret training cavern is something to applaud – Ururu seems as if her childish sweetness is slowly returning to replace her murderous expression, and Ichigo vows never to get on her bad side now that he’s witnessed her ferocity in battle.

“What’s lesson two?” he asks, interrupting the muttered conversation that’s taking place around him. Shooting the headband a look worthy of his greatest enemy (super powered gear his _arse_ ) Ichigo lifts his gaze just in time to catch the blur of steel as it swishes past his nose. A blade of an axe swings down, sharp and relentless in its intent, and Ichigo’s shout is too late to be a thwarting warning. He yelps, chain shatters with a screech of fear, and Urahara’s fan _clacks_ triumphantly in Ichigo’s ear, a maniac’s gunshot through the rush of agony in his soul.

Just off in the distance, his helpless, empty, _detached_ human body slumps over.

Ichigo cannot pretend to be an expert on the otherworld, but he would hazard a guess and say that having a broken soul chain is a _bit_ of a problem.

Nobody else seems particularly moved by his imminent destruction, but if Ichigo has learnt anything from the brief period he has spent in Kisuke Urahara’s home, it’s that such apathy from the household hardly comes as a surprise anymore.

Still. Being tied up and thrown into the bottom of a cavern until his death is taking it a bit far, even for a man as morally dubious as Urahara. Ichigo vows to _slaughter_ the giggling bastard as soon as he escapes, and this is the only thought that maintains his motivation as the depression of the hour sets in – ten hours pass… twenty hours… fifty hours…

He alternates between despair and agony, broken only by brief, fraught bursts of adrenaline. The chain of his soul is happy to consume itself, monstrous teeth clattering and chomping through the links, and no amount of yelling succeeds in slowing its course. That hunger is yet to strike him is his only hope, but Ichigo dreads the moment in which he will feel it crawl through his body like a beast, growling inevitability and clawing up his throat like a scream, scared, hollow and so very, very _hungry_.

Hollowfication is the last thing he wants, but his current options are limited. Climbing out is futile, and tackling his bindings is just the same. Tessai offers no assistance bar the occasional worried look (Ichigo _is_ aware of the hourglass waiting to shatter over his head, so the reminders are needless and frankly _insulting_ ), and the kids stopped entertaining themselves with saliva races some time ago. Urahara has gone wandering, but Ichigo would actually rather die than ask that prick for help, so it makes little difference.

“I’m pathetic,” he murmurs, curling in on himself as if to hide from his fear. The only response is the feasting of the chain, gnawing towards the weight of despair sitting heavy in Ichigo’s chest. The teenager watches it, a morbid fascination, and casts his mind to his friends – to Chad, Ishida, Tatsuki, and Inoue; to Rukia, awaiting the fate of a victim, and to Tōshirō, the not-stalker with the nickname issue, watching from afar.

Something churns in Ichigo’s gut, a yearning or a need, as raw and ruthless as a dying hunger. Yet hunger it is not – no, it’s almost the opposite, or the same, he’s not sure – but whatever it is it burns like a thousand suns inside of him; fear, perhaps, or a hot, unyielding resolution to survive.

He wants to fight. Submitting quietly to his fate isn’t in Ichigo’s nature, and he refuses to lie down and die like a dog – like – like _Rukia_. She should have _fought;_ she should have battled for her rights, for her _life_. She should be here right now, laughing alongside her friends, sharing dinner with her family, but she’s not – _she’s not_ – and Ichigo has to do everything he can to bring her back.

If it is within his power, he will do it. And if it is beyond his power, then he will get stronger.

(As strong as Tōshirō. As strong as he _can_ be).

His chest burns, the chain of his life aflame. Ichigo closes his eyes as the last link disintegrates and looks into himself, searching for the blackened fire of his soul. He knows there is power inside of him – an old power, born long before Rukia entrusted him with her own. It is a dark, lonely, _beautiful_ power, and Ichigo can hear it calling from the edge of his consciousness. It is an unknown voice echoing back his desire, his needs, and his will, a spirit enshrouded in the shadows of their being, and Ichigo awakens to a concrete catastrophe, the sideways skyscrapers of his soul.

“Ichigo,” greets the man, and the world _tips_ between them.

He awakens into the world of the living with death on his tongue and death at his fingertips, tearing away the fragments of bone enclosing his breath. The mask crumbles in his hand, a possibility defeated and a possibility born, but Ichigo is aware only of the robes hugging his skin and the knowing, _relieved_ smirk on Urahara’s face. His shinigami powers wrap around him, reiryoku burning behind his lungs, and Ichigo smiles, thankful for their return.

“A break now,” chirps the blonde, whipping out his fan. “Lesson three shall begin once you have rested. I imagine you’re rather hungry now, aren’t you Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo’s stomach growls right on cue, but the ginger teen isn’t sure he really wants to eat. That his soul will sink to a Hollow’s despair is unlikely now, but as Ichigo shakes away Tessai’s kido and the segments of bone clinging to his hair, he cannot help but wonder if…

His stomach rumbles again, and this time, Urahara laughs. Ichigo blushes at the careless sound and pushes away his dark thoughts. He still wants to punch Urahara in the face, but he’s sure the chance will present itself after his body has recovered.

“Yeah, alright,” the teenager says, scratching his cheek as the eccentric shopkeeper beckons them back up to the shop. “You owe me a feast after all that.”

“Whatever you wish, Kurosaki-san,” Urahara singsongs.

Ichigo rolls his eyes and clambers back into his human body.

 _Christ_ , he’s surrounded by weirdos.

 

 

 

Exhaustion immerses Ichigo in seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. Dreams elude him, forgotten or absent he cannot tell, and he wakes at the four o’clock dawn to a chill, a silence, and a midnight butterfly perched gently on his chest. The first glimmers of sunrise are blurring against the windows, but there is a light within the room already, a phosphorescent moon waning by the doorway. The hell butterfly is endlessly expectant as Ichigo stares at it, and the teenager smiles, the weight of sleep challenging him to do little else.

The swish of fabric is inaudible, but the moon wavers in his peripheral vision, snow enfolding the corner of the room.

“It’s not going to say anything,” comes Tōshirō’s smooth voice, light with admonish. He is referring to the butterfly, no doubt, but Ichigo’s face widens with a triumphant smirk at the breach of silence between them.

“I was wondering when you’d turn up,” the teenager replies, reaching towards the hell butterfly. Although aware that it is a communicative device and thus unlikely to respire or react, Ichigo is still surprised when the creature doesn’t startle away from him. Rather, it merely flutters at his touch and settles on his fingertips, its movements realistic enough to evoke a moment of doubt about its material components.

“I do have other responsibilities to uphold,” Tōshirō states, watching the exchange from his shadowy perch in the corner. With the extravagant length of his kimono tucked neatly around him, he appears to be sitting in a ring of snow. His hands are lost somewhere in the folds of ice, but his zanpakuto is lying beside him, accentuated by the resplendent fabric. It is far slimmer than what Ichigo is accustomed to, but like the extent of the wintry shinigami’s robes, the zanpakuto is remarkable in its length.

Idly, Ichigo wonders if his height is a touchy subject for Tōshirō.

“So I _am_ your responsibility,” Ichigo says, and though he dismisses the insight into Tōshirō’s intentions with a laugh, it still induces curiosity about exactly what the shinigami wants with him. While he is beginning to learn, Ichigo’s knowledge of the shinigami is still limited, and he can only suppose that Tōshirō’s behaviour is peculiar for a man of his status. That is, of course, assuming that Tōshirō _does_ carry a status worth considering – Rukia had mentioned something akin to a military hierarchy, but the silver shinigami before him doesn’t seem to care much for uniform, nor anything that could signify his rank. By that logic, Tōshirō doesn’t fall into Rukia’s descriptions of the lieutenants or captains, but if he _isn’t_ part of Soul Society’s thirteen divisions, then…

“Are you here to stop me from rescuing Rukia?”

The hell butterfly wobbles as it tiptoes over Ichigo’s fingers, and across the room, Tōshirō shakes his head, snowy hair sweeping across his eyes. Ichigo feels relief fill his lungs with the cool dawn air, but the elder shinigami continues, muttering into the early morning darkness.

“It is not my place to get involved with matters of the Soul Society.”

While it warms Ichigo to hear that Toshiro and the injustice that has taken Rukia away are not affiliated, the response is too vague to clear up the ambiguities between them. “But you can get involved in _my_ matters?” the auburn haired teenager prompts, waving away the butterfly so that he can sit up, the blankets pooling around his waist.

Welcoming the butterfly’s return, Tōshirō shakes his head again. “I did not say that,” he replies, which translates as _yeah, pretty much_ in a more eloquent fashion befitting the wintry shinigami in Ichigo’s mind.

Realising now that he might be seconds away from earning a straight answer for the first time, Ichigo presses on. “But you turn up every time I –” He stops and corrects himself, reducing the damage to his pride. “– _nearly_ every time I need you. Have you been assigned to watch me or something? Are you _protecting_ me?”

“You don’t _need_ me,” Tōshirō insists, and it is only the fact that he sounds insulted on _Ichigo’s behalf_ that prevents the teenager from interrupting. “You would be brilliant even if I was not here, I assure you.”

“Alright,” Ichigo replies, resisting the urge to squirm at the praise. “Alright, so if you’re _not_ protecting me –”

 _Which you are_ , he doesn’t add, having heard the hasty diversion loud and clear.

“– then _why_ are you here?”

Tōshirō blinks, and then furrows white eyebrows in vexation, as if annoyed with Ichigo’s unspoken comprehension. As his lips sulk into a frown, his age appears to half; wisdom gives way to reveal a socially awkward virtuoso, but then the fortified façade freezes again, and a smirk replaces the hot embarrassment.

Ichigo waits for whatever flowery denial that his companion has come up. No matter what the wintry shinigami has to say, he is certain in Tōshirō’s role as a bodyguard, and Ichigo has to fight back a smile at how ridiculous they probably seem, arguing over the least mortifying term for their relationship. Tōshirō _is_ right, after all – Ichigo doesn’t need protecting, but that only makes the situation that much more entertaining.

(Yet… Although he is a step closer to understanding who Tōshirō is, there are still worlds between them to explore).

“I’m here to ensure that you become _extraordinary_ , of course,” the moonlight-shrouded shinigami proclaims, inclining his head towards Ichigo’s startled surprise. “Brilliance is not enough.”

From atop Tōshirō’s fingertips, the hell butterfly glides across the room. Its sleek black elegance flickers in the dawning sun, but it is the shinigami who captivates Ichigo’s attention, a blizzard and a god sitting in the corner. The remarkable power Tōshirō wields is back in eyes now, an ancient, mythological force of something far beyond mortal imagination. It is still as frightening to gaze upon as it had been the first time, and Ichigo’s soul blazes in response.

“For what?” he dares ask, and behind him, the sun pours through the gaps in the blinds, casting Tōshirō’s expression into the shadow of Ichigo’s question.

“No,” breathes the teal-eyed storm, thunder in his voice. “For _whom_.”

 

 

 

And then – they part.

 

 

 

But _oh_ , their worlds will collide again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, if I had any artistic talent, I would just spend _days_ drawing Toshiro in an array of elaborate kimonos. I had way too much fun writing descriptions for him.
> 
> I'm about halfway through the next chapter, so hopefully it will be up in a couple of weeks. I just couldn't hold this chapter back any longer :)
> 
> Comments would be wonderful~


	2. Tōshirō I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought 9k would give me _plenty_ of opportunity to write the entirety of Ichigo's invasion of Soul Society. Clearly I was wrong. (Ahaha oh god underestimated myself yet again).
> 
> Heads up here, I've switched to Toshiro's POV for this chapter. I don't usually do this, but I felt that the story needed to follow him for a while. Plus, I had great fun :)
> 
> Please enjoy!

 

As dictated by the cynical sense of humour that seems to characterise the Royal Guard, the chōkaimon deposits Tōshirō on the doorstep of Hikifune’s magnificent palace. Admittedly, there are worse places he could end up – namely, any of the homes of his other four associates – but as the gateway _clacks_ shut behind him, locking away the light of the human world for another day, the silver-adorned shinigami can only curse his misfortune. Fleeing is a pointless endeavour he has long since learned, so Tōshirō has just enough time to groan before the plum haired shinigami is skipping towards him, her rounded cheeks glowing with delight.

“Tōshirō-kun!” Hikifune chimes, her haori trailing behind the large gait of her hasty arrival. The symmetrical swirls on her face seem to roll with her happy call, and the shocking black of her lips pinches together as she coos with a sound usually reserved for one squealing over a puppy. Balanced over her shoulder like the colossal weapon it is, Hikifune carries her gigantic wooden spatula, and Tōshirō resigns himself to his fate at the sight of it, aware of how their encounter will progress.

“Good evening, Hikifune-dono,” he greets, inclining his head ever so slightly to avoid witnessing the gleeful smile widen across her face. It is his only moment of relief before the other shinigami is upon him, her curvaceous figure a warning against any last thoughts of freedom with its merry leaps and bounds.

Hikifune laughs and reaches down to squeeze his cheek. “Why, you’re still so polite Tōshirō-kun!” she says, wobbling the pale stretch of skin she has captured. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me _Kirio_? Deary me, you make me feel so _old_ sometimes. Such talk is terrible for my complexion.”

With a cry, she lays her palm flat against his face and tips his head up, her fingernails sharp against the edge of his eye. Although his cheek stings from the abuse, Tōshirō doesn’t dare to anger such a beautiful predator, and instead keeps his voice level as he gazes up at her pink button nose, carefully avoiding her eyes. “I apologise. I did not intend to bother you.”

“Nonsense!” Hikifune says, patting his cheek like a boisterous mother, all previous implications of her ferocity having disappeared. “You expect me to pass up all that juicy gossip of yours? Come, eat! You must tell me how your young charge fairs!"

There is no possible way of denying her command without risking an exploitation of his introversion, but then again, Hikifune doesn’t offer him the choice before latching onto his hand and leading them through the grand [_noren_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noren) and into the palace. Tōshirō finds her pace difficult to maintain, but she has no qualms against hauling his feet along, weaving them through the spiralling corridors of her home.

Hikifune drags him around royal tables and under lanterns of paper fire, bypassing the largest reception rooms to enter the kitchen. The heart of her home, it is an enormous room of splendour and plenty, and even after all these years, Tōshirō remains far out of reach of anything, tucking himself into the corner lest he disturb Hikifune in her work. Yet, unimpressed with his behaviour, the chef swivels one of the wooden stools towards him with orders to sit, and the winter-elegant shinigami cautiously perches himself atop of it.

“I hope you’re hungry, because these kilograms are coming off!” Hikifune says with a bellowing laugh, and the stove roars to life with a wildfire flame. Pots and pans clatter as she sweeps around the kitchen, and knives dance over the chopping board, carving reiatsu into the meal.

Tōshirō isn’t particularly hungry, but he knows better than to refuse when the first dish is thrust under his nose, cooked to perfection and melting with Hikifune’s vermillion reiatsu. He can’t deny that her food is something to die for, so he nibbles the tempura with only a dash of reluctance, and watches the shinigami bob around the kitchen, the white daphne emblem upon her haori embodying her magnificence.

The scrape of a plate of steaming yakitori across the counter signals the return of the conversation. Only half way through the tempura vegetables at this point, Tōshirō eyes it with some caution as Hikifune begins to fry up some batter for the next addition to the feast, and the gradually slimming shinigami laughs at his horror.

“Perhaps you should take some back to your charge,” she says, winking implications at him that Tōshirō isn’t even going to attempt to understand. “I’m sure he’ll _adore_ my sashimi!”

“He’s not my _charge_ – and heaven knows he doesn’t need the boost,” Tōshirō mutters, scowling around a piece of mushroom. Everybody loves Hikifune’s cooking, so the animated woman has nothing to worry about in that respect – what concerns Tōshirō is the thought of Ichigo Kurosaki receiving a tenfold power increase before charging untamed into Soul Society.

“Neither do you!” Hikifune reminds him with a smile, poking the okonomiyaki as it sizzles in the pan. She flicks a lock of her violently purple hair over her shoulder, and the kitchen rings with her laughter as another thought occurs to her; “My, you’re going to be busy tonight with all that extra energy!”

Tōshirō inhales his next mouthful of tempura with a spluttering choke. “He’s sixteen!” he wheezes, horrified that the other shinigami could think so lowly of him.

“That’s perfectly old enough,” says Hikifune, waving a spatula as if to swipe the shock from Tōshirō’s silvery, but rapidly burning scarlet, complexion.

“He lives in the _twenty-first century_ , Hikifune, he’s not an _adult_.”

“He’s over the legal age of consent, sweetie, and while this is very cute, I never actually said anything about Kurosaki-kun so…”

And Hikifune, the terror, _coos_ at him.

Abruptly, and with enough embarrassment to rival the glow of the stove, Tōshirō realises his mistake. His humiliation scorching across his features in a stunned blush, he grinds his teeth together to block out the howling of Hikifune’s laughter; a fruitless endeavour, for she dominates the kitchen in every way, and one that only serves to fuel the blizzard rousing in Tōshirō’s soul.

Wood screeches against wood as he pushes from the stool. Gathering up the trailing ends of his kimono to enwrap dwindling dignity around himself, Tōshirō mutters a polite farewell with the grumbling tone of a bear and makes a strategic retreat. Doubled over the counter with her raspberry hair spilling over her eyes, Hikifune seems not to notice his departure, and while Tōshirō knows this not to be true, he doesn’t risk dawdling with the knives about. This may be his only feasible escape for the entirety of the meal, so he slips back through the reception room and tries to ignore Hikifune’s bellowing call.

“I’ll bring some sashimi around later, Tōshirō-kun!”

Growling _goddammit_ under his breath, he makes a note to increase the security of his home and sanity when he returns. Their effectiveness at warding Hikifune away will be debatable, but perhaps the mere obligation to use some effort while hounding him will encourage her to reconsider. Doubting this, Tōshirō’s slips into a shunpo that carries him far from Hikifune’s home; across the dimension in which they dwell, their strongholds suspended in an eternal guard beneath the King’s.

At the north most point of this ceaseless world of navigation and compasses lost, Tōshirō has created his home. Isolated by the great disc that lifts it, a city of trees welcomes his footsteps. Unlike Hikifune, who built her home with stone and wood and embellished it with cloth, Tōshirō aspired to the sky. Vast spaces of empty plains guard the heart of his home, a perimeter of thoughtful spaces and sweeping, soaring skies. The outer defence is a maze of endless greens, the unknown, laid out for all to see. There are no paths, tracks, or directions in which to travel, but the route opens up to Tōshirō, traversing across his soul.

At the centre there is a building unlike a palace, but magnificent in its own right. A towering home of jagged rooftops and smooth, symmetrical lines, it appears a temple with its stunning reds and whites. Unreachable, for all lonely sanctuaries are, a lake surrounds it with a motionless surface of glass, and it seems as if the sky has fallen, flattened upon the ground. Hell butterflies nest atop the slates, painting darkness into the ruby exterior, and in their hundreds they are the whistling winds, a thousand eyes reigning over the sky.

Some watch him approach.

The others continue falling over themselves, a flustering flock in the face of Ichibē Hyōsube’s ruthless grin.

Tōshirō would curse his increasing misfortune if it weren’t guaranteed that the Royal Guard’s commanding officer would overhear his grumble. Hikifune’s peppy personal bubble he can handle, but the balding, beard-wielding, bead-wearing shinigami waiting upon his doorstep is another matter entirely. Hyōsube is an ally and thus Tōshirō will never have to face the reckoning of his words, but a man who manipulates the metaphysical and controls all the darkness in the world is something of a god, and far more of a monster than most.

“Ah, Hitsugaya-san,” greets the man, his booming voice an explosion through the peace. Impatience has crossed his arms and dipped the weight of his eyebrows low, but his teeth shine with a smile and his prayer beads clatter, a merry tinkering sound.

Tōshirō steps up beside him, footsteps silent across the wooden entrance of his home. The world is still around them, frozen in this encounter, and the wintry shinigami resists the primitive urge to hide himself in gaping fabrics of snow.

It may be an irrational fear, but there are many reasons why Tōshirō has chosen white to adorn his soul.

“Hyōsube-dono.” He inclines his head, welcoming the man into his home. Prolonging a conversation with the commander is the last thing he desires, but etiquette demands civility, and Tōshirō is changing his shoes and inviting Hyōsube to do the same before reluctance can diminish his hospitality. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Tea would be appreciated,” Hyōsube says, his larger form a shadow behind Tōshirō as they make their way through the house. Their shoes scuffle against the floorboards, a constant reminder of the differences in their gait, and Tōshirō is almost relieved when they enter the first of many [_shoin_](http://www.japan-guide.com/g9/2007_shoin.jpg) style rooms. [_Tatami_](http://www.japan-guide.com/g9/2007_tatami.jpg) mats a comfort beneath his feet, he submits to the request, motioning for his superior to settle at the low table as he retrieves the teapot.

The drink is prepared in silence. Unperturbed by this, for the core dwelling of his city shares the same traditional similarities of Tōshirō’s, Hyōsube merely sits there with his demon grin and the vigilance of his gaze. The cushion, unused to guests, is flattened beneath his weight, and Tōshirō cannot help but fear for the rest of his home, scrutinised by shadows and infected with darkness.

“Hmm,” Hyōsube says eventually, breaking the thoughtful tone to thank his host for the tea. “Do you get on well with Kurosaki?”

“Not in any particular fashion,” says Tōshirō, unsurprised about the topic. Hyōsube is arguably the most dedicated to the Soul King’s will, and with few other resemblances between them, their mission is all of the conversation between he and Tōshirō. “I wouldn’t go as far to refer to us as _friends_.”

“No?” Hyōsube replies, laughing. “His reiatsu is all over you.”

“That’s because he’s horrendous at keeping himself alive. I am strictly professional with my involvement,” Tōshirō swiftly assures, using the teacup to smother the glower of dark, teal eyes. After his mortifying conversation with Hikifune, he cannot find the energy to feel any embarrassment at the implications of his colleagues. Hikifune’s sharp tongue he can handle, but Hyōsube has only ever been an unapproachable superior in Tōshirō’s eyes, and there is no room in their relationship for teasing.

“He knows your name.”

 _Ah, so this is how it’s going to be_ , Tōshirō thinks, straightening at the challenge in Hyōsube’s tone. He has long since doubted how much knowledge of the Royal Guard’s comings and goings Hyōsube holds, so he knows it fruitless to lie in face of an interrogation. Why the commander feels the need to inspect every tiny change is another matter entirely, but one that Tōshirō is wise enough not to push. He is doing no wrong, no matter what Hyōsube may believe, and at the end of the day they belong to the Soul King, and only the King has the right to manipulate them.

“He believes it to be a nickname. He doesn’t know who I am,” Tōshirō explains, sipping his tea. He is certain in this knowledge and expresses himself to be such, and though he actually finds his declaration completely unbelievable, he isn’t going to admit this to Hyōsube. When he had revealed his name to Kurosaki – on a whim, as all of their encounters seem to be – he honestly hadn’t expected the truth to soar straight over the teenager’s head. Yet it had, rather ungracefully, and that Kurosaki still hasn’t caught on is all kinds of ridiculous. Endearing too, in a way, but mostly a testament to the ginger’s oblivious social skills, and one that Tōshirō uses to entertain himself.

Hyōsube pulls an expression that suggests he doesn’t quite believe the other Guard, but then he shrugs and lets it slide. “I suppose that explains why you’re still covering your insignia,” he says instead, and though Tōshirō doesn’t startle at the words, it’s a close thing.

Hyōsube _hm-hmms_ , quirking an eyebrow.

Tōshirō doesn’t blush either, or apologise, but the way he tugs the icy layer of reiatsu from his gigantic haori to reveal the winter daphne symbol embroidering his back certainly feels like an admission of shame. The emblem is proof of his power and characterises his pride as a Royal Guard, but traversing the Human World and the borders of the Gotei Thirteen’s patrols is easier with anonymity, and treating his status as a secret is almost second nature. In Kurosaki’s presence, especially, there is a level of confidentiality that Hyōsube insists must be maintained.

The Royal Guard are to be as elusive as they are elite.

Judging by his superior’s discontent, Tōshirō deems it wise not to admit that he is beginning to appreciate Kurosaki’s use of his name. For someone outside of the Royal Guard to utter _Tōshirō_ upon their tongue is a strange concept – unpleasant in a way that makes him feel vulnerable, but at the same time the vulnerability is an exposure to new ideas, new people, and new _possibilities_ , and Tōshirō is not one to turn _those_ away.

The King had entitled him the _Northern Intelligence_ for a reason, after all.

Apparently having nothing else to get off his chest, Hyōsube excuses himself for an early night. Tōshirō gathers the teacups and hastens to see to his guest, and they part on terms as silent as their arrival; falsely merry with hierarchical differences between them. Atop the house, the butterflies once again flock, scrabbling over each other to flee from Hyōsube’s grand smile, and Tōshirō waits until the commander has long disappeared before consoling the tiny inhabitants.

“You’re not meant to be scared of him. That’s not how I created you,” he informs them, giving a sigh when they swarm towards him, circling his head and nestling in his hair, their gentle touches pitter-pattering across his skin. Some flock towards the teacups in his grasp, as if tempted to taste the sweet ceramic, and the wintry shinigami rolls his eyes.

“Go on,” he says, tipping the cup towards them. “Heaven knows your core component is only condensed reishi, so what’s it going to do?”

The hell butterflies in his hair inch forward. One tumbles from his fringe like a splodge of darkness and slips down the front of his kimono. Most of the others emit terrified chiming noises until Tōshirō scoops it out, but the butterflies enjoying the tea merely quiver, as if a caffeine rush is in any way a capability of their biological makeup.

 _At least someone likes it_ , he thinks as he wanders back inside.

Hyōsube had left half of his drink untouched.

Tōshirō may or may not have very nearly thrown it at him.

 

 

 

“You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?” Hikifune asks the next morning, her frown as accusing as her hair, but only marginally less outrageous. In her grasp is a plate of pan-fried dumplings, freshly prepared and still steaming with the early hours of dawn, and she nibbles on one with a mystifying air of innocence.

Tōshirō glowers at her. The dark splodges under his eyes emphasises his distaste, but the fabric of his haori, grudgingly swiping across the fatty splatter on his cheek, ruins the sharpness of his expression. A dumpling is staining the tatami mat beside him, its descent having trailed a greasy streak from Tōshirō’s face to the floor. Hikifune had nearly fallen out of the window from laughing so hard when her ambush had succeeded.

“Don’t _glare at me_ – you should have been able to avoid it,” she adds, waving her chopsticks in a dismissive motion. “And you should be _thankful_ , Tōshirō-kun! I’ve brought you breakfast!”

She tips the plate towards him in invitation, and only the mass amount of dumplings prevents the second pair of chopsticks from rolling onto the table between them. With a sigh of vexation, Tōshirō accepts the offering and mumbles his thanks – Hikifune is correct in her assumption, and working through the night has built up his appetite. Usually, he ignores the pangs of hunger or satisfies the rumbling with a cup of tea, but although the dumplings have revealed their weaponised development, they are there before him, and Tōshirō could do with an easy meal.

Hikifune’s smug smile he could do without, but they’re a package deal and the food is almost worth it.

“Do you need me for anything, Hikifune-dono?” he asks after appeasing to the chef’s desires, slipping another dumpling into his mouth. It’s not the sort of thing he would usually seek for breakfast and his stomach will probably complain at him later, but Hikifune seems not to care for the fact that she is interrupting his work.

“Do I need a reason to visit you?” the elder Guard singsongs.

 _Yes_ , says Tōshirō’s eyebrows.

Hikifune clicks her tongue at him in an oddly motherly disapproval, and Tōshirō tries not to let it bother him. “My, you are wound up tight today,” she says, apparently seeing something in his expression that reveals the inner workings of his mind. “Don’t let Ichibē get to you; he means well.”

Tōshirō’s next bite almost crunches through the chopstick.

“Aha, see?” cries Hikifune, winking at him. “You’re so easy to read, Tōshirō-kun!”

He ignores her triumphant wiggle atop the cushion and ponders the best method of kicking her out. One would think he would be used to the Royal Guard’s sheer lack of personal bubbles by now. “Hyōsube-dono has said nothing to affect me,” Tōshirō replies, setting down the chopsticks and returning the plate to the plum-haired shinigami. It’s a lie, of course, and Hikifune immediately calls him out on it by flicking another sizzling dumpling at him.

(He dodges it this time).

“So you _haven’t_ sat up all night remodelling your butterflies because Ichibē thinks your relationship with Kurosaki is inappropriate?” she asks, and though her voice lifts in question at the end, her words definitely aren’t inquisitive when the fruits of Tōshirō’s midnight efforts are laid out before them. Dotted about the table, two dozen tiny eyes watch their exchange, and two dozen gentle wings twitch when the shinigami simultaneously look down to inspect the nature of the project; a storm cloud of butterflies shimmering with reiatsu.

“I don’t _have_ a relationship with Kurosaki,” the white haired Guard insists, pointedly glancing away from his half-completed efforts. The butterflies don’t seem to mind, but their apathy is one of the few things which he encoded that actually works. “He’s under my protection.”

Hikifune flattens her expression, dark lips pressing together.

Thoroughly intimated, Tōshirō only takes a moment to cave. “Hyōsube-dono _may_ have implied that I should keep my distance,” he says, rolling his eyes as if to dismiss the problem.

Hikifune mirrors his indignation. “And you’re going to listen to him?”

“Of course not.”

“So you’re _not_ revamping your hell butterflies because you’re planning on separating yourself from Kurosaki and sending him something squishable instead?”

Tōshirō opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

One of the butterflies sneezes something that looks remarkably like a flurry of snowflakes and promptly explodes.

“Like I said,” Hikifune adds, blinking through the dusting of silvery reiatsu that rains down onto the table. “Squishable.”

Tōshirō has nothing to add that could salvage his prestigious reputation. He crosses his arms as if to protect himself from the truth, and purposely ignores his companion’s chirpy smirk as she gobbles down the last of the food. Once again, Hikifune’s observations are accurate, but it still stings to hear the brusque announcement of his ridiculousness. While Tōshirō is by no means _sensitive_ , Hyōsube’s opinions _have_ irked him. Staying up all night to the whirring of his brain had seemed like a good idea at the time, but Tōshirō is knackered with his role of safeguarding Kurosaki on top of the daily maintenance of the Royal Guard, and refusing to sleep (once again) clearly wasn’t his smartest decision.

He won’t say this aloud to Hikifune, but her deduction of his current butterfly project implies that he doesn’t need to.

“You should rest,” advises the woman, her rounded cheeks of ruby lifting into an encouraging smile. “Kurosaki-kun will survive a few days without you. I know you may not entirely trust him, but Kisuke Urahara is a clever man, and he will have already opened the door to the boy’s potential. Nobody will die before their time, I assure you.”

The youngest member of the Royal Guard grinds his teeth together, but concedes to the suggestion with a slight dip of his frosty crown. On the table, the remaining hell butterflies flutter around each other, unconcerned about the disappearance of one of their number with their wings gleaming with uncontained reiatsu.

“They will all survive without you for a few days,” Hikifune notes, and Tōshirō sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes to her victory.

He could do with a short break, he supposes.

 

 

 

Mere days later, the news of Sōsuke Aizen’s death reaches the Royal Guard.

 _I am not to get involved in matters of the Soul Society_ , Tōshirō tells himself as he dons the weightless winter of his haori and fastens his zanpakuto into place with swift, unwavering motions. Leisurely socks tip-tap against the tatami mats, but now is not the time for rest. There are duties to uphold and people to protect – more than one, it seems now, and Tōshirō curses Hyōsube’s unwavering attitude as the hell butterflies flock with his intent.

The one that relayed the message of the murder flutters close, and the shinigami cups the delicate creature, willing it to share its knowledge. With an almost imperceptible quiver, the butterfly obeys, and it disintegrates into stardust with a clap of Tōshirō’s hands, reiatsu collapsing it into snow.

He stills, kimono falling about his feet to rumple into icebergs, great creases and folds of frigid resolution, and lets the bitter shards of recollection sweep over his mind.

“I see,” mutters the Guard, his expression cooling into an eternal frost. Silver eyebrows dip with the weight of truth, and hesitation confines Tōshirō in this moment; a decision to be made, and one with consequences he cannot foresee.

(Has the King... foreseen this…?)

(Is this betrayal already known?)

 _I am not to get involved in matters of the Soul Society,_ he thinks, and the daphne insignia upon his back fades into blizzardy greys and whites, vanishing from sight.

 

 

 

And now – it arises.

 

 

 

 _Oh_ , the moon shoulders the weight of the sky.

 

 

 

Light slips between the bars of the window, spilling broken angles of the afternoon into the cell. The space is vast for one restricted to solitary, and the corners of the room creep with shadows that squeeze through any cracks in the floor, eager to flee the golden reminder of the day. There is only one guard for the weeping, dishevelled prisoner, but underestimated, Momo Hinamori is a lieutenant in every right. No matter the state of her heart – a small, limitless thing it may be – her soul glows with a strength that few appreciate, and even fewer live to understand.

Violet blossoms colour the edges of Tōshirō’s vision – an illusion he willingly steps through, a moonlight harbinger untouched by its poisonous grace. The petals of hakufuku are as beautiful as they are sinister, and Momo stands there like the spell personified, eyes a navy darkness and glowing with intent – for freedom, for justice, for answers. Alone and incapable of withstanding the lieutenant’s power, the lone guard is swiftly entrapped in the delicate darkness of her kido; his eyes roll, his body lax, and he crumples into an eerie sleep upon the floor. Unbidden tears scar Momo’s cheeks, but she is impassive to the consequences of her actions, and about her, the cherry blossoms continue to twirl.

She takes a breath and readies herself. The hands she raises are pale and seeming to waver in their determination, but Tōshirō knows that her aim will be true. The guard would not be slumbering toxic nightmares if Momo were not resolute in her escape, and so he steps into the sunlight, unflinching as the last blossom brushes his cheek.

A shawl of snow hides his footsteps, swallowing the kido’s purple touch beneath its arctic trail. The illusion succumbs to his presence, and Momo startles as her power snaps. Squeaking, she holds her hands close to her chest, and her eyes dart about as if she hadn’t just considered blowing apart the prison.

“Shiro-chan,” she breathes, the name a memory from long ago, slipping through her lips like a gasp.

Tōshirō crosses his arms, his displeasure evident in the creases of his kimono and the crumples in his face, expression dipping. “I thought I told you not to call me that, _bed-wetter_ ,” he retorts, smoothing his glacial complexion into hyperbolic ire; a sibling exchange, and one that tugs untimely smiles onto their faces, fragmented by the prison bars between them. Worlds keep them apart, but the shadows of their past bind them together, light and darkness melding into the greys of a childhood they once shared.

“No,” Momo says, shaking her head. Melancholy disrupts her demeanour, and a twirl of hair spills from its confines upon. “I said I’d stop when you became a _captain_ –”

“– Oh, so being a member of the Royal Guard means nothing, does it?”

She laughs quietly, but says nothing to counter him. She would, Tōshirō knows, were this meeting instigated by any other tragedy than this. Blame cannot be placed upon her for her weariness – a captain’s death is no small matter, and a murder is nothing to laugh at. There are sinister forces at work, weaving in-between the spotlight of the Seireitei, and somebody – somewhere – is pulling the strings with a smile upon his face.

Tōshirō may not be well acquainted with the captains of the Gotei Thirteen, but his knowledge of their governing and the workings of their minds are secrets that he hears; whispers of intentions and beliefs, as light as a butterfly’s wings. Sōsuke Aizen is not a man that would succumb to murder – but a man, he is, who would descend to such feats. A ruse is enveloping the Soul Society, but this is not the first step from salvation that Aizen has taken. No – for years this plan has been in motion, but it seems the stage has finally been set, and the actors are about to unfold a play worthy of the façade that Aizen has maintained. This is strategy of the highest calibre; a game of chess, unseen, and only one side has been playing all along.

(Black… or white?)

(Which side moved first?)

Momo sighs, and Tōshirō recognises the sound as her sisterly petulance – the _Tōshirō Hitsugaya what have you done_ that frequented his childhood. He feels that it’s out of place given the semantics of their meeting, but this doesn’t dissuade from his expectation of her question, ringing softly through the silence:

“Why are you here?”

Lifting an eyebrow as if the reason for her imprisonment is something to find entertain in, Tōshirō drops his gaze to the guard slumbering oblivious on the floor. No words supplement the motion, but his expression says it all.

Momo tries not to blush, but ultimately fails at her brother’s pointed look. “You knew,” she states, referring to more than just the guard’s unfortunate rendezvous with the floorboards.

“You’re my sister,” Tōshirō says, the simplicity of the statement weighted with a complexity of a genius. The additional shrug says, _of course I knew_ , and the hesitation that follows gives way to an awkward expression that the Guard swiftly covers. “I know… Aizen meant a lot to you.”

Deer-like, she nods, and her agreement is as careful as his wording. “He was murdered,” she murmurs, hands clutching together tightly. Sunlight spills into the room behind her, highlighting the trembling edges to her features.

In that moment, Tōshirō doesn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

“He’s a complicated man,” he supplies instead, and although he notices the error in his syntax, Momo is blissfully unaware of the slip as she shakes her head, looking close to tears.

“That doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” she counters, previous fury returning. Firework reiatsu flickers, snapping at the edges, but though her body hunches as if preparing for combat, her hands remained tucked away, kido unlit. “Somebody killed him, Tōshirō. Somebody _betrayed_ him. As the Fifth Division lieutenant – as – as _someone he trusted_ , I need to find out who. I can’t just sit here and –”

“Yes you can,” Tōshirō says, reprimanding himself when she startles, his interruption having announced itself with more force than he intended. He goes on after an uneasy cough, softening his voice. “You will be _safe_ here. These past few months have been _years_ of work coming together. There is a bigger picture to investigate – there are things currently taking place in the Seireitei that you _don’t understand_.”

“Then tell me!” Momo cries, lurching so close to the bars that, for a second, Tōshirō expects her to reach out and shake him with her frustrations. Desperation contorts her beautiful youth, but a fire burns behind her eyes; a lieutenant’s will, and a warrior’s determination for righteousness. “Tell me what I don’t know! _I want to know_! I want to know… I – I _need_ to know what’s going on. Shiro-chan, please –”

Pressure descends upon the room, compressing their quarrel into short, jagged gasps. Tōshirō lifts his head as his reiatsu shimmers over his skin, icy fragments melding into armour against the murderous intent. Opposite him, Momo tumbles forward under the frenzied density; bloodlust seeping through the walls, echoing with the laughter of a monster toying with its prey.

“That’s Captain Zaraki’s reiatsu!” she wheezes, but Tōshirō cares not for the captain’s explosive ways. Instead, he focuses on the burn of the captain’s opponent, a fire flickering at the far in the distance, struggling to stay alight under the onslaught. It is a powerful force in its own right, but the fiery reiatsu wavers with fear, smoking at the edges with terror.

Kurosaki.

“Of _all the captains_ …” the December shinigami curses, having half a thought just to leave the moron to his fate – success, for sure, but adrenaline rushes through Tōshirō, pouring doubt into his muscles and driving him to move. Kurosaki may be a powerhouse of unpredictability, but there’s still _every chance_ that he could slip up; he’s young, inexperienced, and _stupid_.

“Wait!” Momo pleas, averting Tōshirō’s shunpo at the last second; ice splinters at his feet, demanding that he ensure Kurosaki’s safety. His sister stares at him, eternally young. Her eyes are large with bewilderment, but she doesn’t reach towards him despite the denying quiver to her lips.

“I need to go,” he whispers, lowering his gaze from her vulnerability. The words _I’m sorry_ take shape on his tongue, but he forces his mouth shut not to admit the weakness that’s already stark across his face.

“But you haven’t said –”

“I will. I swear, Momo, I will find out what’s going on, and I will tell you as soon as I’ve –” Tōshirō stops himself, hiding Kurosaki’s name behind his teeth. The teenager is an enemy of the Soul Society, and it would do not good to blurt out information that he may rather remain confidential. Momo isn’t the type to divulge his secrets, but there’s no telling how far the information may travel, and Tōshirō would rather not risk Kurosaki’s wellbeing.

Instead, he goes on, diverting his point away from the teenager: “I need you to be safe, Momo – I need you to stay _here_. Your division needs you, but they need you unharmed and well. Can I trust you not to try and break out again?”

Why it is imperative that she remains in the holding cell is unknown to Tōshirō, but his gut is demanding that she stays, and his instincts are willing to shove pride aside to hear her promise. There is more than Momo’s status as a lieutenant on the line here – her life is walking a fine line, unsettled by shadowy manipulations that claw through the bars of the cell. Tōshirō fears for his sister, and he strives to protect her from the monsters that dwell, but just as he cannot keep Kurosaki from the truth, Momo will not remain untouched by the presence that threatens them all.

Once, he thought the possibilities of the Royal Guard were infinite, but even the realm of a God has restrictions; rules that one has to obey.

(Perhaps they bow more than most, forever on their knees).

On the other side of the prison, Momo nods, sunlight refracting over her crown. Straighter she stands, a flower seeming to flourish in the glow, and the last of her tears are blinked away. Her reiatsu mellows as she settles down, wiggling to find a comfortable position on the floor.

“I trust you,” she rasps, attempting a smile.

It ends up presenting itself more like a bubbling wave of tears that anything else, and the wintry shinigami drops into a crouch opposite her, holding out his hands. Momo blinks, uncertain, but Tōshirō cups his palms together and presses on, swirling a wisp of his arctic breath between his fingers. A chime sounds with impossibility, tiny snowflakes crystallise, and from his hands, a butterfly soars free, fluttering in the gales of his power.

“Keep this with you,” Tōshirō says, encouraging the hell butterfly towards her with a gentle prod. “It will blend into your reiatsu to hide itself, but tuck it under your collar just to be sure. And if you need anything – treat it like a normal hell butterfly, and I’ll answer as soon as I can.”

The lieutenant nods again, staring at the creature perched upon her shoulder. Unconcerned by the attention, the butterfly scurries about, its footsteps like miniscule crunches of snow across her uniform.

Appeased, Tōshirō gathers his kimono around him. The winter whiteout of his soul rolls with the coming battle, and he slips away without a returning glance, storming across the Seireitei. Kurosaki’s reiatsu is blazing through the streets, a mouse fleeing from a cat with frantic, zipping movements. Tōshirō breezes over the rooftops, leaving footsteps of a moment instantly forgotten in his wake. Below him, squads of shinigami scour the streets, their identities indistinguishable from the darkened robes of their uniform, and above him, hell butterflies begin to gather, bodies flickering into a fleeting existence.

Bells ring around him.

The tips of Kenpachi Zaraki’s hair respond in kind, the jagged edges of his power turning too late to catch the arctic wind whispering past. Unnoticed by the bloodthirsty captain, Tōshirō perches high above the battle, and he scatters his miniscule troops in search of Kurosaki’s friends just as Zaraki lurches forth and heaves the teenager headfirst through a wall.

Blood and debris splatter across the captain, amplifying Kurosaki’s yell.

Zaraki grins, wicked. Hunger tears open his face to expose a mouthful of fangs.

A terrified squeaking sound slips out of Kurosaki’s lips, unlike anything he has ever emitted before, and the substitute shinigami bolts, splodges of gore trailing his fear behind him.

Zaraki watches him go, his smile contorting into a frown so grim that Tōshirō feels a shiver run up his spine. Disappointment twists into the captain’s expression, and somehow – _impossibly_ – it is far more fearsome than the wild edges of his elation.

“ _Oh_ ,” comes a sigh, tiny in comparison to the battle erupting below. Shoulders tense with lightning reactions, Tōshirō turns to the shinigami crouched beside him; a little thing, pink haired and pink cheeked, and she sighs again, the Eleventh Division lieutenant’s badge wobbling on her arm. “Ichi-chan is so _boring_ to play with.”

She lifts a pout towards him, grumbling like the child she seems, but Yachiru Kusajishi has a stare worthy of her division, a gaze just as predatory as that of her captain. Magenta reiatsu tastes the air, and it moves around her body like a viper, its audacious hot pink tongue licking the bloodlust from the fight. Kusajishi’s love of battle – the game of victory and defeat – is an unnerving expression upon such an innocent face. Although flowers adorn her blade and bubblegum brightens her hair, there is a demon in her soul, and it cackles and calls from within.

“Who are you?” the lieutenant asks, sounding only slightly more interested in his presence. From what Tōshirō recalls of the superior officers of the Eleventh Division, little captivates Kusajishi’s attention, and the girl has already returned to watch the fight before he can offer a response.

The Guard figures this is just as well. “I’m not important,” he says, following her gaze. Blood marks the combatants’ strategies, bespattering the Seireitei’s high walls with burgundy memories, blackening as the battle continues. Kurosaki is struggling against Zaraki’s relentless monstrosity – his hands grip Zangetsu tight, but the zanpakuto bites him back, reiatsu tearing into his skin. The blade is oversized in all dimensions, and Tōshirō imagines that the spirit is characterised by much the same – its goals, its ideals, and its pride.

If the zanpakuto does not step in to assist its wielder, then Tōshirō will have to. There is no question of whether he should or he shouldn’t – claiming his duty at Kurosaki’s side can only excuse him so far, and while indirectly involving himself in Soul Society’s conflict is one thing, lifting his zanpakuto and clashing with a captain is another.

(Kenpachi Zaraki is not worthy of yielding to Hyorinmaru’s wrath, but that is beside the point).

 _I will not draw my blade_ , Tōshirō vows, and he hopes to abide to promise this time. There are other ways he can assist after all – creativity doesn’t limit him, and he has arsenals of choice to inflict upon his opponent. Zaraki depends too heavily on brute strength, and the flexibility of kido will be his downfall.

Still. Tōshirō would prefer to avoid a fight at all costs, but with the imminence of Kurosaki’s defeat (and a bloody and brutal defeat it would be), action is demanding to be taken. The repercussions from the teenager’s death would shake all of known creation. The Soul King’s will touches all, but Ichigo Kurosaki more than most, and the backlash from his demise would be immeasurable.

No human as ever determined the fates of so many, and Tōshirō is sure of this, just as he is sure that Kurosaki has absolutely no idea.

“You can’t interrupt the fight,” Kusajishi says, noticing the way the Guard holds himself; his shoulders tight in response to the carnage below, and his face, impassive, cracking like the midst of winter fighting back spring. “Ken-chan will be mad.”

Tōshirō grinds his teeth together, his furies crunching through his jaw. His hopes for Kurosaki’s success implore him to maintain his watch, but with them crumbling like the foundations of the Seireitei, (the walls against the onslaught, the ground beneath the truth, shaking them head to toe), only morals unsuitable for this one-sided slaughter hold Tōshirō back.

The lieutenant swings her legs from the roof, happily embodying them all.

“Aren’t I someone you’d want to play with?” Tōshirō asks her, coiling a dragon’s temptation about him as his kimono moves, pooling a lakebed of ice atop his feet. Frigid reiatsu shimmers over his skin, sunlight reflecting from the moon. One silvery eyebrow lifts to question the lieutenant’s innocence, and Kusajishi turns, amethyst irises aglow.

“Aren’t we already?” she replies, tilting chubby cheeks into her hands.

Kurosaki screams a long, guttural sound of frustration, and Tōshirō moves.

Bells chime.

A hell butterfly swoops into the fight, its wings alight with stardust, tiny arctic sparks glistening like fire. Winter descends in its wake, but gently it falls, its touch softly brief and briefly soft – with havoc, and something endlessly more. Metals clashes against metal, blood against blood, and the butterfly flutters past unharmed, brushing through the fury of the foes. Zaraki pushes forward unaware, his zanpakuto unseaming the shiver of the air, but Kurosaki falters, staring at the insect as it sails past his nose.

Zaraki’s victorious cackle freezes in time, his colossal form subduing in the chill of the dark-eyed blizzard emerging before him, magnanimous footsteps befalling his assault. It is not a killer instinct that stills Zaraki’s intent, but a boy (perhaps), who commands the heavens with his hands and hell with his tongue, and who breathes an unreachable power grinded into his bones.

“ _Stop_ ,” Tōshirō orders, and everything does. The second that passes is limitless, a God’s definition of time. He stands between the warriors; his haori, a white flag, and his movements a dove, small, graceful and powerful in its presence. Hyorinmaru is sheathed and Tōshirō’s hands remain unclenched, his lips untouched by kido, but the tide of the battle churns at his arrival, seas unsettled by the storm.

 For a moment, neither Zaraki nor Kurosaki seem to understand the change. Their bodies are ready to strike, their zanpakuto to clash, teeth against teeth, but a polar force stands before them, Antarctica roaring.

“ _Tōshirō_ ,” Kurosaki murmurs, disbelieving of the sight before him. It has been some time since their last encounter, and Tōshirō’s promise to stay out of Soul Society hangs between them, a thread fraying with every passing minute. The teenager says something else, blurting a question of _how_ , _why_ , and _when_ , but the Guard hushes him as Zaraki’s zanpakuto pulls away, killing intent grating against Tōshirō’s glacial reiatsu.

“Who are you?” growls the captain, flicking his predatory gaze between his opponent and the newcomer like a hungry animal, unable to decide on its prey.

Tōshirō remains perfectly still except for the tilt of his head, a fortress warning enemies away. “I am only passing through,” he says, as if he truly intends not to get involved any more than he already has. For some reason, his pledges have crumbled since introducing himself to Kurosaki, and Tōshirō can only imagine that’s because the teenager has an ungodly habit of throwing his life around. Kurosaki’s lack of self-preservation is astounding, and Tōshirō makes a note to have _words_ with the teenager at the first appropriate opportunity.

( _Words_ is a broad definition for what will probably express itself as _sit down right now or so help me, Ichigo Kurosaki, I will haunt you for the rest of your godforsaken life_ ).

(He uses _godforsaken_ in a figurative manner, of course).

“Passing through?” Zaraki says, grumbling his displeasure at the prospect. Opposite him, Kurosaki mirrors the captain’s incredulity, and in that moment, Tōshirō is glad that he stands nearly two foot shorter than most as his _you’re both thick_ eye roll passes unnoticed.

“Yes,” he replies curtly, using the delay of Zaraki’s sluggish cognition to gather reiatsu at his feet. Ice crackles beneath his shoes as the Guard prepares to depart, but hidden by the extensive folds of his kimono, the flux of power is unheeded. “ _So_ , if you’d excuse us…”

Zaraki’s confusion is lost to the sound of Kurosaki’s own, the distinctly adolescent _huh_ expanding into a reverberating yell as Tōshirō launches them across the Seireitei. Only five rooftops pass before Kurosaki yanks himself free (a sign of his anger, no doubt, and a ridiculous one as he plummets from the speed of the shunpo), but the Guard considers the plan largely successful as he hauls the boy to his feet, peeling bloodied, squashed appendages from the tiles.

Splodges of purple skin stitch together Kurosaki’s torn shihakushō, and the ginger teen has to drive his zanpakuto into the roof to balance himself. Rushed bandages flop over his arms, dribbling blood down the blade’s impractical hilt, but Kurosaki seems not to notice his injuries as he pushes Tōshirō’s support away.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” the substitute shinigami snaps, scowling through his scarlet blindness. He wipes at his eyes with a sloppy motion, smearing the gore of his wound across his forehead. It only helps with emphasising his anger, the bloody streak accentuating the bite of fire behind his eyes.

Perplexed with both the question and the tone in which it is hissed, Tōshirō’s mouth works soundlessly, his tongue stuck to his teeth in shock. “When do you mean?” he asks, widening his eyes as if this will provide a fresh, computable angle on Kurosaki’s emotions. Hands aglow with healing kido, the Royal Guard reaches up to the substitute’s reddening hairdo, giving the teenager’s shihakushō a particularly riled tug as he does.

“Don’t _fight me_ ,” he stresses, grumbling as Kurosaki wiggles in protest. Blood splatters over Tōshirō’s hands, staining his skin with the fruits of his kindness. Apology flashes across the teenager’s face, and Tōshirō shoots him a flat look. “Honestly, I am _trying_ to keep you safe.”

“Well you’re doing a _crap_ job of it,” the adolescent complains, grudgingly submitting to the treatment. “That maniac isn’t going to give up just because we’ve run away – he’ll be here in a minute, and then what are you going to do? Cart me off somewhere else? I could’ve handled him –”

If Tōshirō were any less of a person, he would have already swatted the moron.

“You don’t have time for _could haves_ ,” he interrupts, silencing the tirade with a chilling glare even as he runs his fingers through the auburn tangles, carefully checking for injuries. “Aizen isn’t going to stand around _waiting for you_ to have all the fights you want – the execution will proceed whether you’re there or _not_. The world will keep turning without you, and Aizen’s plans _will_ continue to fall into place just as he designed it. Now let me _help_ you.”

“Who’s _Aizen_?” Kurosaki blurts, the name having apparently consumed the entire capacity of his short-term memory for the reprimand. “Isn’t – ow, fuck!”

They both startle; Kurosaki winces as the Guard’s motions jerk, grating against a wound. Tōshirō apologises instantly, thrumming more reiatsu through his hands to reconcile the blunder, and mutters a curse for his thoughtlessness. Kurosaki is surrounded by a world he can scarcely understand, and the magnitude of Rukia Kuchiki’s execution is likely unknown to the teen. Sōsuke Aizen is not a character that Kurosaki has ever encountered, and his manipulations, though extensive in their affect, have yet to reveal themselves to the substitute. There is innocence in Kurosaki’s ignorance, and one that might be amended in the most brutal fashion unless…

Tōshirō casts his mind back to his summons just hours ago – his butterfly, the watcher with the secrets, heavy with a knowledge that has come far too late. If Aizen’s plans had been known _earlier_ , or if someone had _seen_ , then perhaps…

Perhaps everything would be different.

Perhaps everything would be the same.

Tōshirō isn’t delusional enough to think that the greatest minds of the Seireitei _hadn’t_ noticed. Gin Ichimaru is shrouded in mystery, Kaien Shiba and his family were killed, and Kisuke Urahara was banished from the Soul Society, many captains and lieutenants to never be seen again. Aizen’s plans are a trap, and one either submits to a mastermind or submits to death once unfortunate enough to stumble into the regions of his mind. It’s no wonder that Aizen managed to claw himself so far when he commands the board so ruthlessly; a king with an army of ambiguities before him.

Yet… Aizen’s strategy has not considered _every_ piece in the playing field.

“Hey,” Kurosaki says, waving his hand in front of Tōshirō’s face. The bandages are gone now, the bloodied engravings upon his skin smoothed over, and the silver haired shinigami lets his kaidō flicker and dim with surprise. Although his thoughts had wandered into the spider’s web of his mind, Tōshirō realises that his healing had persisted, and now Kurosaki is watching him, calmer now that the agony has passed.

(A wildcard waits in Soul Society’s deck).

(Although, one could argue that there are two).

“Who’s Aizen?” the teenager repeats, reaffirming Zangetsu’s place upon his back.

Somehow, in a fashion too abstract to be intended, the action feels like an apology, and Tōshirō accepts it in the same counterintuitive way, crossing his arms with a sigh. The truth behind Kuchiki's execution rises through his chest, resolved to be shared with the teenager, but the brief air of sincerity collapses beneath a murderous reiatsu; Zaraki, his navigational skills successful by chance, and the returning slaughter that he brings.

“ _Shit_ ,” Kurosaki hisses, eloquently summarising Tōshirō’s thoughts. “Doesn’t he know when to give up?”

It’s an odd thing for Kurosaki to say, the Guard notes, given the teen’s previous reproaches for their swift escape from the fight. Nevertheless, the time to dwell on such misperceptions has passed, and Tōshirō contemplates the most effective course of action as their bloodthirsty opponent approaches.

In the distance, far off to where one of winter’s butterflies is keeping watch, a beacon of human reiatsu disappears.

By the time Tōshirō makes the connection to the giant who sentries Kurosaki’s back with a gentle touch and great, untiring morals, the young wildfire is already aflame, blazing across the Seireitei. Swearing, the Royal Guard chases after his companion without a thought for the two Eleventh Division officers on their tail. Kurosaki’s reiatsu may be a supernova in its own right, but Tōshirō’s is the subtle approach, the arriving winter, and he condenses it into his soul to hide his presence and hopefully buy them some time.

The days are counting down. Pawns and knights alike are moving into place.

The courtyard where Yasutora’s form is lying has been carved open by a tremendous power. The aftermath sits heavy in the air, compressing warning down upon them, but Kurosaki seems not to notice as he throws himself to his friend’s side. Though as bloody and still as death, there is life within Yasutora’s body, and Tōshirō blocks out Kurosaki’s cry of relief to listen to their surroundings; the silence creeping in, empty hands and empty eyes of a division cloaked in shadow.

“Tōshirō!” Kurosaki calls, his voice resounding around the desolate barracks; his desperation a scream to the awaiting ears of the walls, concrete closing in upon them. “Can you heal him?”

The Guard twists, the end of his haori almost snagging on the great ruptures in the ground. Cherry blossoms swirl around the swish of the fabric, their dance broken only by the devastating ice of his kimono. Tōshirō watches them quiver around his feet, an age-old map of the Seireitei copying their twirls in his mind, and as it spins to locate the last of their fortune, lost somewhere within the walls of the Seireitei’s maze, something flickers in the corner of his sight.

Clouds drift overhead, obscuring the light of the sun.

Shadows move towards them, writhing, monstrous things.

“ _Eighth division_ ,” Tōshirō breathes.

And too far to overhear the whisper, Kurosaki continues to struggle with the deadweight of his friend, fighting to haul Yasutora over his shoulder.

The extra shadow gliding about his feet passes unnoticed.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. You read that right. I think that might actually be a cliffhanger! :O
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go!


	3. Tōshirō II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry for the slight delay in this chapter compared to the previous one. In case you missed the memo, I was without a laptop for a little while, but that's all sorted now :) Hopefully you'll forgive me since this chapter is 11k in length (I _know_!)
> 
> I had many, many things I needed to do today, and instead I ignored the entire list and wrote almost _half_ of this whole chapter in one sitting. What was I thinking.
> 
> Still following Toshiro here since this was all meant to fit into last chapter. Yeah. Wasn't sure how I'd worked that one out since the whole Soul Society invasion now sits at a fantastic 20k across the two chapters. ( _20k!_ ) On the plus side, their relationship is slooooowly beginning to take form, so please enjoy this chapter :)

 

Deathly zephyrs wisp through Tōshirō’s hair, heavy with a reiatsu of bubbling intoxication and honeyed, sickly lies. The cherry blossom petals ballet around him in their dozens, and though Byakuya Kuchiki’s million knives they are not, there is a danger about them, rosy touches warning him away. Shunsui Kyoraku is not a man that Tōshirō wants to encounter – not now, while Kurosaki is vulnerable in his protectiveness, entirely focused on saving the life of his friend, and not ever, while morality divides them. The Eighth Division captain is a good man, and a bad man, and Tōshirō isn’t willing to gamble Kurosaki’s life on the whims of a fortune.

Kenpachi Zaraki is a monster, but Shunsui Kyoraku is something else entirely, enwrapped in pleasantries and eager to drown his demons in the bottom of a bottle. By his own power, Kurosaki would not survive a fight with Kyoraku’s shadows. Determination and dumb luck may favour him against Zaraki, but Kyoraku battles with time on his side, and Tōshirō doubts that even he would escape unscathed.

Alive, yes. His bones were crushed with the Soul King’s will, and a single captain is not enough to challenge the life of the King. Yet, what would that life be worth if Kurosaki were to succumb to misfortune? What would that life be worth if Tōshirō were incapable of defending the one young man gifted with a shield of Gods?

The clouds creep closer, clawing shadows behind them.

There is a game in play, but only one competitor is privy to the rules.

(The question is – which one?)

Tōshirō frowns, biting his unease into the round of his lips, pink bursting red. Kurosaki is talking to his friend in loud tones of prosody, but Yasutora remains unaware. The consequences of his loss splatter his clothes and blood drips onto the ground, a supernova explosion of scarlet. It’s not safe here – or anywhere – but here, under the watchful eye of cherry blossoms and sky, is a more dangerous place than most. Where they can retreat to recover is the next obstacle, but Tōshirō would rather leave this shadowy place behind him than wait for opportunity to strike.

Hasty strides carry him to Kurosaki’s side. “Can you lead me to wherever you’ve been resting?” asks the Guard, hoping that the teenager will have one in mind. The Soul Society’s layout is likely unknown to him, but surely Kisuke Urahara and his companions would have prepared somewhere for the humans to rest? The mission has dragged on for days already, and though Kurosaki is marred by stress and weary from his battles, he is still free from the early symptoms of sleep deprivation. A safe place to treat Yasutora and to rethink the upcoming battles is what they need now, and Tōshirō trails his gaze back around the empty courtyard.

A breeze whispers through his hair, movement stirring. Shadows cling to the walls, overseeing the shinigamis’ exchange, but as the clouds drift beneath the afternoon sun, daylight flickering in their wake, nothing else seems to rouse around them. Yet, a prey’s fear sharpens Tōshirō’s reiatsu, and he knows that they are not alone in this barren battlefield.

Eager for respite from the pressure, he glances back at the teenager expectantly. Kurosaki replies with a dumbstruck mumble (of _course_ he does), and offers no further ideas for their plan of action. His eyes flick between Yasutora’s humbled form and Tōshirō’s enraged glower, and he seems so remarkably, _painfully_ like the teenager he is that Tōshirō deflates, unable to reprimand the boy for something beyond his control.

Kisuke Urahara is a dead man.

“Fantastic,” Tōshirō grumbles, heaving a frosty sigh. Kurosaki matches his frown, colouring it with a tinge of embarrassment, but Tōshirō says nothing more about the blunder. Instead, he slips under Yasutora’s far larger body to shoulder some of the weight, and the auburn substitute grunts a grateful noise at the help.

Kurosaki will not be able to keep up with his shunpo, so Tōshirō leads them into a walk in the general direction of _away_ , hating that it manifests itself as more of a sluggish plod through the courtyard. Lingering at the edges of the surroundings is Kyoraku’s reiatsu. Idly, like bubbles of alcohol drifting through a glass, the dusty pink haze wafts over the gateway, fortifying the unseen guard. It is a subtle motion, a power nearly repressed into nothingness, but Tōshirō can feel the weight of its stare against his skin; against his reiatsu, cold upon his neck, hairs standing on end. Wherever the captain may be, he is waiting at the edges of this moment; a panther in the dark, calculating the skills of the pieces on the board. Kurosaki seems not to notice the presence, but it consumes Tōshirō’s mind as they struggle their way to safety – what are Kyoraku’s intentions? What does he plan to do? Will they be able to counter it? Will Tōshirō be able to get Kurosaki away from here unharmed?

And why did Kyoraku allow Yasutora his life?

“It’s a captain, isn’t it?” Kurosaki asks, and though he is not looking down at the Guard, there is a query creased into his skin, a scowl mirroring the one on Tōshirō’s face as it gives away to startled surprise. “You’re nervous, and you weren’t with that Zaraki weirdo, so whoever Chad fought must be strong, right?”

“Yes,” Tōshirō murmurs, directing a sigh towards the ground. He does not want Kurosaki to share his unease, so he grumbles at his feet instead, watching the deformation of their shadows – their bodies combined. “Shunsui Kyoraku is second only to the Captain-Commander. I cannot predict his movements as well as I would –”

He moves, liberating his body from Yasutora’s weight to swivel in front of the teenagers. Kurosaki yelps, hesitating between reaching for his zanpakuto or his friend, and ultimately grasps for Yasutora’s great shoulders as Antarctica stirs around them, hail flicking through the air as Tōshirō’s reiatsu swirls. Cherry blossoms sweep from the ground, punished by their curiosity as the icy vortex rips through them, lashing out at the unwelcome touch. Snow-bright light seems to crackle across Tōshirō’s body, his pulse beating lightning through his skin, and the shadows at their feet scatter and flee.

For a second, there is nothing but light around them, Soul Society’s clutch having burned away. Then colour returns, bringing shape in splodges at a time, reality reforming before their eyes. The courtyard seems emptier now, untouched and unguarded by enemy aims, and the darkness that returns is their own, tentatively stretching from their feet.

And from this darkness steps a cat, golden-eyed and silver-tongued, wearing primeval superstitions as its fur. Four determined paws slink towards them, seemingly driven by a consciousness superior to cats, and upon its wiry crown of fur sits a butterfly, ethereal wings aglow with sparks and glimmers of moonlight. It is one of Tōshirō’s own, and though reassured by its presence, the silver-lined shinigami maintains his guard in front of Kurosaki as the feline circles before them.

That is, until the teenager blurts, “Yoruichi-san!” and the cat sits itself down with the slump of a babysitter too exhausted to care.

Tōshirō stares at it, mind whirring with thoughtless thoughts and a jumbled, broken logic of _surely Urahara didn’t name a cat after Yoruichi Shihōin_ …? The association he can understand, but the practicality is another matter entirely. Kisuke Urahara is an eccentric man, yes, but Tōshirō would never have pegged him as a _sentimental_ one.

“I see you’ve roped along another vagabond,” the feline says to Kurosaki, wrinkling its nose in the disgruntled fashion resigned strictly for human expression.

Tōshirō scowls on Yasutora’s behalf before realising that the cat is referring to _him_.

Unaware of the Guard’s astounded turmoil, Kurosaki has perked up at the cat’s deadpan greeting. “Err, this is Tōshirō,” he says, making a vague introductory motion between the strangers. “Tōshirō, this is Yoruichi-san. He’s Urahara-san’s friend.”

“A pleasure,” says Yoruichi, looking anything but delighted to see Tōshirō standing there enwrapped in wintry bitterness and as unmoving as the darkening months, a glower carved into the icy expanse of his soul. “I take it this butterfly belongs to you?”

The hell butterfly nested into his fur twitches. Tōshirō gives no indication of agreement, but he does not disagree either, and Yoruichi inclines his head in understanding. The nature of the butterflies is not one Tōshirō desires to mention where Kurosaki could overhear. Questions of his affiliation with the Soul Society will be generated; ones that will undoubtedly lead to discussion of the Royal Guard, but Kurosaki has enough on his mind as it is, and the importance of Tōshirō’s identity is not yet sufficient to disclose.

His haori long and brisk about his feet, a cascade of water frozen in time to robe him in white diamonds of supremacy, Tōshirō likely appears a captain to the cat. The assumption is not as inaccurate as one may believe, and the Royal Guard does not blame Yoruichi for his apprehension. Kurosaki inspires powerful souls to orbit about him, and their protectiveness over the teenager is an unavoidable result. Tōshirō is _relieved_ to see the feline’s distrust of him, just as he hopes to amend it in time.

Yoruichi glances between the two shinigami, his golden eyes bright. Then he sighs, appeased or defeated it is difficult to tell, and rises up to his feet. The butterfly flutters into the sky and begins to circle around them, as if lassoing them together.

“Come,” Yoruichi says, beckoning them with a jolting flick of his tail that almost knocks the butterfly from the air. His shadow is as small as one would expect for a cat, but there is something larger in his gait, a powerful presence hidden away. “Let’s continue this elsewhere.”

He pads off in the general direction that Tōshirō had been planning to take them, but there is assurance in his movements, a predator’s determination as it hunts through the night. Expecting them to follow, Yoruichi does not look back, and Tōshirō uses the moment of respite to gauge Kurosaki’s reaction to see if it justifies how completely out of his depth he feels.

“What?” the teenager asks, noticing the inspection. “It’s just Yoruichi-san, you can trust him.”

“He’s a cat,” Tōshirō says, unwilling to make his uncertainty explicit.

Kurosaki gives him a particularly unhelpful _and what?_ look. It is one that adolescents perfect in all corners of the world, but Kurosaki seems particularly adept at it. “Yeah, I know. Help me with Chad, would you?”

Although uncomfortable with the shifting airs of tension, Tōshirō relents his guard and moves to assist. Yasutora feels lighter now that Kyoraku’s overbearing presence has moved on, and the two shinigami haul him up with ease. Yoruichi’s small figure is waiting by the gates, sleek tail swishing from side to side. Topaz eyes watch them approach, stare only broken by an impatient, lion-worthy yawn to encourage them along.

Kurosaki grumbles something that sounds like _little shit_ from somewhere beside Yasutora’s cumbersome form.

“He can _talk_ ,” Tōshirō says, adding onto his previous misgivings about the situation. He would go on to ask if Yoruichi’s verbal abilities has ever struck _anybody_ as odd, but Kurosaki’s bright mop of hair appears from around Yasutora’s chest, its golden hues highlighting the smile upon his face.

“ _Yeeeah_ ,” the substitute says, his grin stressing the word. “That took me a while to get used to as well. But don’t worry, he can meow too. And purr. But don’t tell him I told you that – he almost clawed my ear off when I laughed at him. He’s a bit of a sore loser, really.”

In front, the cat says nothing, but Tōshirō is sure he doesn’t imagine the chink of claws against the gravel, a dozen tiny blades utilised for bloodshed. Kurosaki laughs weakly, but his smile only grows at the sound, and Tōshirō shakes his head at the daring. It amuses him, and exasperates him, and the Guard grumbles about ridiculous, headstrong _teenagers_ as they slip across the Seireitei.

 

 

 

Healing Yasutora is an easy enough task, but encouraging Kurosaki to rest is another matter entirely. Watching the teen and the cat bicker is entertaining, so Tōshirō remains passive at the side of the alcove as they argue it out, Yoruichi’s kaidō working its magic on the unconscious human between them.

“I’m okay, honestly! Tōshirō healed me fine.”

“I don’t care how well you _think_ you are – you need to calm down and you need to get under that barrier or I will _make you_ –”

How Yoruichi envisions the execution of this plan is beyond Tōshirō, but Kurosaki seems threatened by whatever idea flickers through his mind. Flailing, the teenager glances over at the Guard for assistance, and although Tōshirō feels an appreciative warmth glow inside of his chest at the plea, he raises a silver eyebrow to dispel Kurosaki’s hopes.

The teenager deflates, looking comically betrayed, and Tōshirō smiles at Kurosaki’s glower. Yoruichi says nothing about their exchange, seemingly content to ignore the moonlight embodiment for the most part. The Guard is aware that the attitude is temporary and so tries not to feel insulted. They will talk once Kurosaki has succumbed to slumber, therefore Tōshirō takes the opportunity to shuffle through his mind and entomb secrets into the depths of his soul, building up a dragon’s hoard of knowledge that he cannot share. The rest – the barest minimum for Yoruichi’s ears – he enweaves into the surface of his being, and upon his back the Royal Guard insignia appears, stretching between his shoulders with words he cannot say.

He hopes Yoruichi will understand his silence.

(He hopes his King will understand his choice).

“I see,” is the cat’s eventual response to the revelation, his expression dark and impassive now that they are sitting side by side, the two humans unaware of the conversation that is taking place. In space, there are barely inches between the secrets they embody, but they both have façades to maintain – Tōshirō, enshrouded by the blankness of the arctic, and Yoruichi, his slender form enlarged by the air of contradictions about him. Together, they likely have the knowledge to topple Aizen’s plans, but together they are here, safeguarding a teenager instead.

“What business does a Royal Guard have here?” Yoruichi asks, his gaze still trailing over the winter daphne emblem forever crystallised upon Tōshirō’s haori. He is not asking about Tōshirō specifically, but the Guard as a whole, but even here, where the Soul King has long since left his mark, the extent of the King’s godly intentions is taboo.

Even the Guard do not question their maker.

“I imagine it is much the same as yours,” says the wintry shinigami, inclining his crown of frost towards the feline. “I fear Kurosaki-san will not persevere without somebody to reign him in occasionally.”

“And that person is you?”

“Well,” Tōshirō replies, carefully omitting the truth. “I feared Kisuke Urahara could use all of the help he could get.”

“Ah,” says Yoruichi, nodding to something only he can comprehend as he turns back to where the teenagers are sleeping. “You’re the one who has been watching from afar – Ichigo’s late-night visitor. Kisuke has been very eager to discover your identity. It is not often somebody manages to pass through his home undetected.”

That… makes him sound like one of those morally problematic characters from a young-adult romance novel, but Yoruichi is correct in his assessment, Tōshirō supposes, even if the comparison makes him want to melt into a mortified puddle on the floor.

“Urahara and I are due to become acquainted,” he replies vaguely, pondering the most torturous implements he could inflict upon the scientist once the opportunity to speak his mind arises. Five people and a cat is not the ideal party for an invasion of _an entire military society_ , after all. Kurosaki and his friends are _blessed_ to still be alive.

“I wonder how you have come to be involved in this,” Tōshirō continues, elaborating on this thought. An intelligent, talking cat Yoruichi may be, but a cat he still is at the end of the day. Urahara may be known for his unconventional means, but the questionably domesticated addition to the rescue operation is surprising, even for him.

Yoruichi does not seem to share the same sentimentality, laughing at the question. “Kisuke and I have been friends for too long for his eccentricity not to have rubbed off. He has a brilliant mind, and sometimes all I can do is to trust it. It has been that way since we were young and I do not question it anymore.”

“I see,” says Tōshirō, for his propriety will not allow him to blurt, _wait – what?_ at the peculiar answer. _Surely_ Yoruichi isn’t implying that…?

“Caught on, have you?” asks the cat, fangs glistening with his grin. His tail flicks behind him like a viper slithering through the night, and his eyes are golden in their mirth. “Ichigo’s naiveté astounds me. I’m going to relish the look on his face when he finds out.”

Tōshirō blinks, a wide-eyed child at the dawn of New Year.

Yoruichi’s returning grin is positively wicked, and it remains that way as his reiatsu descends upon them, his figure blurring and morphing and _rising_ into the emergence of the truth; a woman with a naked feline slenderness standing brazen over Tōshirō’s gobsmacked expression.

“See?” she teases, flicking a lock of violently purple hair over her shoulder.

Tōshirō definitely _does_ see, and he hurls himself away in such a haste that he snags on the end of his kimono and topples over in his embarrassment. Fabric snowfall creases about him, shielding his burning blush from Yoruichi Shihōin’s gaze, but nothing can be done to muffle his flabbergasted squawk from the snickering shapeshifter.

“ _Oooh_ ,” the woman coos, elated by his reaction. “I’m going to have lots of fun with you!”

Rearranging himself with a more dignified motion than _scrambling_ , Tōshirō keeps his eyes politely diverted from Yoruichi’s gleeful wiggle. The slumbering forms of Kurosaki and Yasutora are safer to stare at, and underneath the gentle barrier that Yoruichi has created, they remain fortunately blind to her identity. Silently praying that the woman either reverts to her furry form or finds some clothes in the near future, Tōshirō runs his gaze over the extent of Kurosaki’s exhaustion. Glad that the teenager has taken the time to recover, however brief the period may be, he wonders if he should do the same. His hell butterflies are on guard about the Seireitei, faithful in their watch of Kurosaki’s friends, and they will alert him if change occurs while he rests. There is a butterfly at Kurosaki’s side despite Yoruichi’s presence. It flexes its tiny body and shivers with the reiatsu that constructs it, almost as if it is stretching its limbs after a workout, calm now that the flow of adrenaline is easing away.

Tōshirō sighs and risks a glance at his companion, hoping the lack of laughter is an indication that she is finished with her teasing, and in the corner of his eye the butterfly twitches, jerking awake with the resounding toll of church bells.

Yoruichi emits a questioning noise with the deepness of her feline tones, but Tōshirō has already moved to scoop the butterfly up, his heart pounding as the creature relays its message in the hushed, puzzled voice of Momo Hinamori.

“What’s wrong?” Yoruichi asks, watching the exchange occur in speech inaudible to her ears. “That hell butterfly…?”

“It’s mine. I make them. All of them,” Tōshirō says in a snappish breath, vaulting to his feet. His reiatsu breathes out, a dragon stirring from hibernation, and Kurosaki grumbles in his sleep. The Guard pays no mind, swirling around as if scanning the cave for the right decision. “I need to go.”

“What?”

“I promised,” he explains, thinking back to his conversation with Momo just a few hours before. Only a few days remain until Rukia Kuchiki’s execution, and Tōshirō reprimands himself for thinking of rest. The cogs in Aizen’s plan continue to turn, cranking the inevitable ever closer.

“Keep Kurosaki-san out of trouble,” he adds, irrespective of his right to ask such a thing of Yoruichi when it should be he who maintains the guard. It is his duty, after all, even as he twists a sheet of reiatsu to conceal the Royal Guard emblem from sight.

“ _Oh_ , you don’t ask for much,” Yoruichi sighs, but she inclines her head when the Guard glances her way, seeking assurance.

“Thank you,” he says.

He is gone before she can reply.

 

 

 

Guards are abundant when Tōshirō arrives at the holding cells, so he keeps close to the walls and curls his reiatsu deep into his soul to avoid detection. Momo’s message had been short, and he can appreciate the reason why with the amount of shinigami travelling back and forth. His sister is still within the confines of the prison, and much to Tōshirō’s relief she appears unharmed. Yet clarifying her distress will be tricky without revealing his presence, and he ponders the best course of action as seated and unseated officers alike hurry past.

With knocking everybody out for a few minutes seeming to be the only viable option, and one that he does not wish to act upon, Tōshirō’s impatience grows. Momo is just metres away and one would think, as a Royal Guard, he should have the ability to pass entirely unnoticed. While it may be true that he can hide himself from most, the same cannot be said for Momo’s half of the conversation. Talking to thin air will raise suspicion, and Tōshirō does not want to endanger his sister when she is already under a tight watch.

An opportunity presents itself mere moments before drastic measures are taken. At first, Tōshirō is oblivious to the implications of the hush upon the room, the sudden jolts to attention, and the haze of strawberry-blonde from the doorway, but then Momo’s dark, restless eyes brighten, and she calls out with a familiar chime.

“Rangiku-san!”

The Tenth Division officer enters, her authority striding straight through the centre of the bustle, but gone from her arm is the pride of the lieutenant’s badge, and instead her figure glows with the brilliant white of a haori, embodying her role as captain.

Tōshirō holds his breath as she walks past.

“Momo-chan, how are you feeling?” the captain greets, offering a smile to the imprisoned lieutenant. The exchange lacks the usual formality between highly ranked officers, and tension eases from Tōshirō’s shoulders as he recognises the friendship between his sister and the former Tenth Division lieutenant. It is unexpected, but he is glad to see that they have found comfort in his absence.

The two women chat for a moment, unheeding of the cell bars that separate them. Around them, the lower ranked shinigami take the casual conversation as their cue to disperse, and people begin to disappear off to other duties. Some remain, so Tōshirō does not reveal himself, but he finds that he does not need to. As if aware of his presence, Momo flicks her gaze from Matsumoto and appears to search about the room for something. Then, apparently appeased, she makes a show of handing something over to the captain, smiling all the while. The exchange is not subtle by any means, but Tōshirō watches as Matsumoto slips the envelope up her sleeve, the weight of her arrival having successfully deterred the watching eyes around them.

When Matsumoto leaves, Tōshirō follows. He spares a second to puff a wisp of frosty air towards his sister when the shinigami once again stand to attention at the captain’s motions, hoping that she will understand. Then, just as quietly as he had come, he slips out again in the wake of Matsumoto’s footsteps.

Unaware if his former colleague has any idea that he is present, Tōshirō begins to unravel his reiatsu as they trek further from the cells. It is only a slight change to the atmosphere, but by the time they are halfway to the Tenth Division, Matsumoto has taken to the rooftops, far away from prying eyes. She stops and turns a body tense with unease, and the Guard steps close, seeming to appear with the softest flurries of wind.

“Matsumoto-san,” he greets, effortlessly pushing away the urge to refer to her as _lieutenant_ , and her mouth gapes open as his silvers and whites sharpen into existence. “That is, _Captain_ Matsumoto. Congratulations on achieving bankai.”

She stares at him, as beautiful and as dangerous as ever. She still has her scarf, Tōshirō notes, but it drapes across her shoulders now, a tint of pink against the stark haori. A slouch still characterises her posture, but it seems deliberate now, prudent and assured. Haineko is a blade dense with power at her waist; she has matured into captaincy, or captaincy has matured her, and Tōshirō feels a twinge of pride on her behalf. She isn’t the woman who used to lob textbooks at Captain Shiba anymore.

“ _God_ , don’t use my title,” Matsumoto whines, her expression twisting in distaste. “It sounds wrong coming from you.”

Apparently, Tōshirō is still the only Tenth Division officer to ever converse with _tact_.

“And _somebody_ had to take over the division, didn’t they?” she goes on, grumbling all the while. A pout dips into her beauty as she begins to twiddle with a lock of hair. “Took me long enough, I suppose.”

Tōshirō isn’t sure he has the words to reply to that – comforting or not, and consoling has never been his forte – so he says nothing, torn between apologising and defending his actions. They stand there, an awkwardness they have long since felt between them. Matsumoto seems to stew for a minute, the twiddling of her hair increasing in vigorousness, until a waggish smile sneaks onto her face. Eyes of opal flicker down at the Guard, bright in their mischief and rounded in their hope, and Tōshirō sighs, recognising the expression as the coyness of his childhood.

“Alright, fine,” he grumbles, believing it best not to wiggle his way out of this one. There is little he can do to deter Matsumoto once she sets her mind on something. “Get on with it.”

Matsumoto squeals and launches towards him, enveloping him in her arms. Years have passed since Tōshirō was last subject to this, and for a second he is gratified that the lieutenant-turned-captain hasn’t changed her ways. But then she shrieks gleefully, a girlish pitch of delight, and the Guard can only question his lapse in sanity.

“Look at you!” Matsumoto chimes, jumping up and down. “You’re still as cute as ever – _oh_ , I just want to pinch your cheeks –”

“Please don’t.”

She ignores his plea with a laugh and begins to make ridiculous shapes with his mouth. “You should have come and visited! There I was, little ol’ me in that vast, empty division –”

“I –”

“Oh shush,” the captain soothes, cutting him off before the apology can take form. “I’m teasing. It’s good to see you, _Tōshirō-kun_. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m not going to call you _Hitsugaya-san_ , am I? What sort of title do you have now, anyway? Are you a captain? Is that how it works?”

Tōshirō huffs, unable to cross his arms in her titanium hold. Wiggling away is swiftly becoming a more appealing option as the torment continues. “You know I can’t disclose that sort of information –”

“ _Aha_! Tōshirō-kun it is then. Wait – what _are_ you doing here?” She pushes him back, holding him at arm’s length. The playfulness has vanished from her expression, and instead of the happy-go-lucky woman content to recount old memories, a captain stands before Tōshirō now, edges sharpened by her reiatsu’s haze. The shift in tone is instantaneously, and the Guard is abruptly reminded of the context of their encounter – the betrayal hanging over their hands.

“Momo called for me. In a roundabout way,” he explains, getting to the point. “May I ask what you spoke to her about?”

Puzzled by the question, Matsumoto shrugs. “Just gossip, really,” she replies, tilting her head in thought. The conversation passes through her mind again, dropping her smile into a frown.

Tōshirō opens his mouth to press for information, but the captain startles, clapping her hands together as a memory explodes in her mind. Pulling away from him, Matsumoto retrieves an envelope from her clothing – the same one that had passed from Momo’s hand less than an hour ago.

“Momo gave me this. She told me to hang onto it until – oh.”

She stops, stares at the letter, stares at him, and then presses it into his hands. The handwriting is unfamiliar to Tōshirō, but the addressee is clear. He turns it over between his fingers, inspecting the care in which the envelope had been sealed – and opened.

“This was for Momo?”

“Yes. I gave it to her earlier, and she’s the only one to have read it. It’s a letter from Captain Aizen, but I suppose there’s something in it that she wants you to see.”

“It was from _Aizen_?” Tōshirō asks, yanking the message free with none of his sister’s previous care. He blitzes through the letter, realigning facts and suspicions in his mind. His hell butterflies have already discovered the backbone of Aizen’s plot – the years of work behind the scenes, the suspiciously convenient deaths, and the meddling between the realms of shinigami and hollow – but to _see_ the traitor’s thoughts laid out before him obliterates any last doubts.

 

_Hinamori,_

_I sense that my time is near. Thus, to show my faith in you, I will tell you all of the facts of this conspiracy that I have discovered…_

 

“Manipulative _bastard_ ,” Tōshirō hisses, and at his exclamation, Matsumoto snatches the letter from him to read it for herself, disregarding her previous hesitation at delving into something so private.

“Captain Aizen _knew_ he was going to die? He knew that…?” Strawberry-blonde locks fall over Matsumoto’s horrified expression as she shakes her head. “ _God_ ,” she breathes, frantically re-reading the letter in her disbelief. “This is _madness_. This is…”

She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t need to.

 _It is a century’s worth of lies enwrapped in the truth_ , Tōshirō thinks, _and that’s what makes it so convincing_.

“Momo also mentioned something about two other lieutenants?” he asks, eager to press on despite how his thoughts whir with the implications of the message. He already knew that Aizen was the mastermind behind his own demise, but why did he write the letter? Why address it solely to Momo? Is there a reason beyond incriminating an innocent captain? Is it just a distraction, or is there something more behind it?

[… _The real goal of this execution isn’t to execute Rukia Kuchiki_ …]

“Y-Yes,” Matsumoto mumbles, still holding the letter in corpse-white hands. “Renji and Izuru – err, Lieutenant Abarai and Lieutenant Kira, I mean. Apparently they broke out of their holding cells not long ago.”

Tōshirō hums thoughtfully. That explains why there had been so many shinigami in the prison, but not the reasoning behind the increase in Momo’s security. Do they believe that she will break out as well – after the opportunity has passed? Tōshirō has asked her to stay put, but if she truly wanted to escape, then going along with her friends would have been her best option. Given the state of panic, Tōshirō imagines that the two lieutenants had been missing for some time before their actions had been noticed.

“And I take it nobody has gone after them?” he asks, trying to recall the lieutenants’ identities in his mind. Izuru Kira is a familiar splodge of daffodil yellow and black in his mind, but Tōshirō cannot remember ever meeting Renji Abarai. The man must have only recently gained his status as a lieutenant, but in what division?

At the query, Matsumoto flattens her lips and says nothing.

Tōshirō raises his eyebrows at the silent admission. “You’re not going after them?” he presses, adjusting his question to her guilty expression.

“Renji… no. Izuru… probably has enough to deal with right now. The Third and Fifth Divisions were always close, and Captain Aizen’s death has caused a lot of tension…” She trails off, almost as if she doesn’t believe what she is saying.

It strikes Tōshirō as odd, and he dips his eyebrows together, the cogs of his mind cranking with the new information. “Gin Ichimaru is still the captain of the Third?” he asks, and Matsumoto nods sharply in reply, looking reluctant to indulge him.

 _I wonder…_ Tōshirō ponders, deeming it wise not to mention the captain’s guarded behaviour. _Is Ichimaru involved in the lieutenants’ escape? Does Matsumoto… suspect him?_

He pushes those thoughts away for another time. It would do no good to upset Matsumoto now, not if she truly does have the same suspicions in mind. There are other paths in which Tōshirō can continue his investigation, and he nods to himself, pleased to have unravelled more of Aizen’s plans.

“Would you like me to assist?”

Matsumoto emits a surprised noise at the change of tone, but the way she smiles suggests she is equally glad to have moved on. “What do you have in mind?”

“Moving unseen, for one thing,” Tōshirō replies curtly, earning himself a startled smile from the captain.

“Not with that outfit,” she laughs, the teasing undertone a familiar sound.

“Well, you didn’t see me.”

She laughs louder, conceding to the point. “Thank you,” she says, looking satisfied, and it’s clear that she isn’t grateful for his quick correction of her blunder. “I should… go back to Momo. Make sure she’s okay.”

The letter passes back between them from the clench of her hands to the small of Tōshirō’s own, less shaky but no more assured. The captain tells him to keep it, and though the Guard isn’t certain that he wants to, he slips it into his kimono for safekeeping.

There is another moment of quiet, but this time, the awkwardness of their time apart has passed.

“Thank you, Captain,” Tōshirō says, and though he stresses her title in an almost mocking manner, he is entirely serious in his respect.

This time, Matsumoto’s smile doesn’t falter.

 

 

 

Plagued by thoughts of Aizen’s deceptions, Tōshirō wanders the Seireitei until the night draws close, smoothing down the darkness with a weary ache of limbs and a breath, cold, like shivers down his spine. He does not come across Gin Ichimaru or Izuru Kira except in his mind, but he feels no closer to understanding their actions when he reaches for the distant buzz of Kurosaki’s reiatsu, following it back to Yoruichi’s hideout. Yet he is tired and his duties are far from over, so he slips back into the cavern with high hopes of rest, and is unpleasantly startled by what he finds.

“Heya, Tōshirō! Where have you been?” Kurosaki calls, water splashing about as he beckons the Guard over to the hot spring. Colour splodges over his skin, scarlet blushes from the heat and purple sores of violence. There is a particularly nasty bruise across his jaw, the pain blotched in an ugly mustard welt, but the young man is energetic enough to offer a smile despite the likely cracks in his teeth.

The wispy warmth and mellow haze of the spring is inviting, and Tōshirō feels a tug of longing as he approaches. Kurosaki and his friend seem to be enjoying it at any least, although the more extremes of emotions are often difficult to identify in Yasutora’s characteristic silence. Both teenagers being up and about is a sight which relieves a great deal of Tōshirō’s worry, and some of his stress must seep through the icy shine of his façade then, for Kurosaki falters and makes a motion that could represent a desire to tug the Royal Guard into the pool.

“You look tired,” notes the ginger.

Tōshirō definitely does _not_ blush when three sets of eyes lift towards him. Yoruichi, at any rate, has the decency merely to glance before returning to her business, and even Yasutora’s curiosity only lasts a second from behind his fringe. Kurosaki, in a classic display of his audacity, stares until the silver-cloaked shinigami relents with a sigh.

“It is nothing to be concerned over. I just had some family matters to attend to,” Tōshirō explains, coming to rest at the poolside. His robes _flump_ into a circle around him, and Hyorinmaru assumes his place by his leg, eternally at his side. Yasutora glancing between the wintry cloth and the blade nervously forces Tōshirō to soften his reiatsu and his body to unwind from his patrol about the Seireitei.

“I see you’ve been training,” he adds, interrupting any further questions; Kurosaki’s curiosity is stark across his face, the word _family_ having struck a chord.

Kurosaki is quiet for a moment, likely contemplating if he should let the change of topic slide away so easily. “Yeah. Zangetsu’s done a number on me, but I think we’re getting somewhere. This hot spring is amazing – I don’t know how Urahara-san made it to heal so fast but…”

“This spring has healing capabilities?” Tōshirō blurts, leaning forward to dip his fingers into the water. Many years have passed since his first, and only, submergence in Tenjirō Kirinji’s hot springs, and while whatever Urahara has devised here is not quite the same (thankfully), the sensation is similar. Tōshirō draws his hand out and marvels at the churning of his reiatsu over his skin, astonished by the familiarity. Kirinji’s White Bone and Blood Pond Hell springs are frighteningly efficient, but the risks of adverse effects are great. The Guard is pleased to see that the spring before him is a watered down variation of Kirinji’s design.

“You should join us,” Yasutora says, his rumbling voice startling Tōshirō from his musing.

“Yeah, come on,” Kurosaki adds, prodding one of Tōshirō’s bony knees when the shinigami hesitates. “Then you can train with us. Chad needs someone to spar while I get my arse handed to me by Zangetsu.”

“You will defeat him,” Yasutora declares, prompting his friend to laugh a little nervously.

“Well, I dunno if _defeating him_ is the purpose, really,” says Kurosaki, sounding slightly disappointed by the idea. “I’ve just got to prove myself, haven’t I? I have to _earn_ bankai, not take it from him.”

Having succumbed to the temptation of relaxation before him and used the teenager’s distraction to unrobe, Tōshirō almost trips into the pool at Kurosaki’s argument. While the teen is entirely correct in his philosophy about bankai (which is something of a feat given his inexperience with zanpakuto), the fact that _bankai training_ has come up in conversation at all is unexpected. Fortunately, neither teenager appears to notice his blunder as he lowers himself under the surface, but Yoruichi makes an awkward little sound from the other side of the pool. Tōshirō sinks until he finds a somewhat raised portion of the ground to rest, but even then, the water line is at his shoulders. Uncaring, he ducks to smother the fierceness of his frown into the healing cocoon. Yoruichi adds nothing else to justify her decision, although she does shrug when Tōshirō glares a sheet of ice across the surface of the spring.

 _Bankai in less than a week,_ the glower reprimands. _Are you trying to kill him?_

Idly, Yoruichi continues to twist a lock of hair about her finger.

“Oi, Tōshirō,” Kurosaki interjects, innocently watching the exchange. Golden hair is awash across his face, dripping hot beads of water to sooth the bruises on his jaw. “Did _you_ know that Yoruichi-san wasn’t a cat?”

The Royal Guard blinks at the question, then blinks at Yoruichi's devilish smile, the gleam in her eyes, and her strictly human proportions, feminine and bold.

She had enjoyed revealing herself to Kurosaki then, it seems. Yasutora, the Guard imagines, probably took the whole thing in stride.

“To be fair, Yoruichi-san _is_ a cat,” Tōshirō says, frowning when his reply articulates itself in a tone harsher than intended. Cross with himself, he gives a sigh, willing the spring to wash away his fears. “But no, if you recall our previous conversation, I was unaware of her identity.”

“Oh _yeah_ ,” the other replies, rewinding through the exhaustive length of the day to locate said conversation. He shares a look with Yasutora that only the teenagers can understand, and then laughs at the Guard’s expression. “Got a bit of a shock, did you?”

“Ah,” says Tōshirō.

Kurosaki grins – heavens above he grins like the _sun_ – and Tōshirō is helpless to do anything but return an awkward misshape of a smile, glacial and raw.

 

 

 

Training continues come the dawn. True to the promise Tōshirō cannot recall making, he allows Yasutora to throw punches at him while Zangetsu beats his wielder into the ground. The gentle giant of a teen is reluctant is engage in a battle with what he deems an unarmed opponent, and when asked why he will not draw his blade, Tōshirō can only offer a little shrug.

“There are other ways to resolve a conflict,” he says, Hyorinmaru untouched across his back.

Yasutora seems to understand that, and from then their training begins in earnest, a new level of respect forming between them. They rest often throughout the day, allowing time for Yasutora to replenish his depleted reiryoku and catch his breath. He never once seems discouraged by Tōshirō’s lack of injury, and instead looks evermore determined as the hours pass. It is a hopeless endeavour, even with Tōshirō only relying on the simplest shunpo steps to dodge, and Yasutora seems to understand this. Yet he perseveres despite the odds, and Tōshirō is swift to approve of his unwavering resolve when the last reiatsu blast exhausts before it can strike.

“You are kind,” Yasutora says, slumped over a bottle of water. “I have a long way to go before I can compete with you.”

“Take heart,” Tōshirō replies, softening his gaze for the teenager’s sweat-plastered surprise. He turns down the offer of refreshments, aware that Yasutora is in greater need of the boost. “So do most.”

Yasutora doesn’t smile, but that’s probably because Kurosaki takes the moment to crash through (yet another) boulder with a frustrated roar, scattering rock and debris across the ground. The ginger teenager swears high and mighty as he picks himself up, pointlessly battering away the fog of dust with his blade. He coughs, splattering blood from his mouth, and then curses even more when his weapon crumbles in his grasp, carved into useless pieces by his opponent’s assault.

“Maybe we should help him,” Yasutora states.

“Unfortunately, that would defeat the purpose of bankai training,” Tōshirō replies, pressing his lips together at Kurosaki’s struggles. “But I’m sure Kurosaki-san would appreciate the sentiment.”

Across the room, the wildfire shinigami has picked up another sword, only for it to prove completely useless with Zangetsu’s next swing.

“Dammit!” he yells, tossing away the broken handle. It is a superb throw even if it is unintentional, but defeat enwraps Kurosaki too tightly for him to notice how Zangetsu only narrowly avoids being bashed into unconsciousness by the fractured chunk of sword.

“Actually,” Tōshirō notes, catching the zanpakuto’s passing flicker of disbelief. “I think Kurosaki-san will be just fine.”

When Renji Abarai crashes into the training ground just hours later with demons behind his eyes and demons on his tail, Tōshirō suddenly isn’t so sure. The news the lieutenant brings is almost the worst they could fathom – the execution date has moved once again, only this time, it looms over their heads with the coming dawn. Kurosaki’s goal to achieve bankai in a week was madness, but now it seems sane compared to the impossibility of tomorrow. The coming noon is less than twenty-four hours away; there will be no rest for them tonight, it seems.

They train on. Slowly, Yasutora’s attacks increase in accuracy, and Kurosaki’s swords withstand multiple strikes. In the corner, the red-haired lieutenant keeps to himself, his own zanpakuto spirit supervising his progress. Yoruichi is content to ignore him, watching on in a worried silence, but Tōshirō keeps enough distance to oversee them all. Lieutenant Abarai is not his first priority, but he keeps a close eye for Matsumoto’s sake. The fiery lieutenant is pushing himself just as hard as Kurosaki is, so Tōshirō includes him when he imposes a break upon the teenagers. There is hardly time to rest, so the rapid healing of the hot spring is put to good use. Substance comes in the form of energy bars and snacks, and although Tōshirō has no idea where Yoruichi swiped them from, her rucksack of full of them. Kurosaki consistently stresses that there isn’t enough time to eat, but ultimately submits to a bar or two when Tōshirō refuses to cease throwing them at him until he gets his point across.

“Alright, alright, sheesh,” Kurosaki grumbles at one such time, shoving the snack into his mouth. He glowers at the Guard with an _I hope you’re happy_ expression, and Tōshirō certainly is until he reaches into the bottom of Yoruichi’s bag and pulls out something that _definitely_ isn’t an energy bar.

“Oh man,” Kurosaki says through a mouthful of food. His exclamation of surprise stops briefly while he swallows, and then he crumples up the wrapper in his possession, the sound crackling like a bone snapping in his hand. “Yoruichi-san still has that thing? Weird. She took that off me like – well – yesterday actually.”

He seems more concerned by the passage of time than the Hollow mask in Tōshirō’s grasp. It is as if he has absolutely no inkling about what it is, what it means or what it _represents_ , and as the Guard turns the mask over in his hands, inspecting the claw-like marks reaching across the left eye socket, the lack of understanding horrifies him.

“Kurosaki-san,” he begins, hoping his assumptions are incorrect. Around them, nobody else seems to notice their conversation, and even Kurosaki is ignorance to Tōshirō’s alarm. “Have you… Have you been hearing a voice?”

“Eh? You mean Zangetsu?”

“Yes – ah – no.” Tōshirō falters, pondering the best way of phrasing his question. There is every chance that Kurosaki knows what he is referring to but just doesn’t wish to share, but somehow, watching the teen’s puzzled expression, Tōshirō feels that the ignorance is genuine.

He wishes it wasn’t.

“Like your zanpakuto,” he attempts, chewing his lip before continuing. “But another…?”

It is an odd question, but the teenager is quiet for a moment, entirely trusting in the importance of Tōshirō’s query. His features crease in thought, memories pushing through his skin, but eventually he scratches his cheek and the foreboding atmosphere dispels around them.

“Nope,” Kurosaki chimes.

His reiatsu doesn’t waver – it’s the truth.

 _Fuck me_ , Tōshirō thinks, but he can’t say this aloud, so instead he settles on something marginally more sophisticated.

“I see.” And his moment of hesitation is necessary for scrapping all of his previous ideas. The substitute saying _no_ is the last thing Tōshirō wanted, and now he is even less certain on what to do. “Well. Would you inform me if…?”

He trails off. People may consider him a child prodigy, but textbooks have yet to teach him how to rearrange _I think you’ve been through hollowification and I don’t want you to panic but I really need to know_ into a syntax that won’t terrify everybody who hears it.

Unfazed, Kurosaki shrugs. He opens a second energy bar and begins to munch his way through it without a care for the strange questions, his mind absorbed with thoughts of the approaching execution. “Sure. I’ll let you know.”

Helpless, Tōshirō returns the mask to the bottom of the bag.

 

 

 

Night and day occur together in the cavern, coexisting above the timeless tomb of rock. The passing hours exist only in their minds; the pressure of their goals, the clock ticks at rates only they can measure. Kurosaki’s winds on in bursts and welts of blood and the exponential of his growth, whereas Tōshirō’s slips past in meditation, an ageless conversation with his soul. Hyorinmaru has little to say on matters of the Soul Society, but his words are encouragement wound, and he always has the breath to reassure Tōshirō’s fears. His wings spread far and wide, extending his watch from the inner reaches of their sanctity to the corners of the world. The Seireitei buzzes around them, alive with the motions of a thousand different souls, but it is the one that approaches with fire on her trail and ashes in her tongue that draws the Guard into awakening.

Echoing the entrance and departure of Renji Abarai just hours before, Rangiku Matsumoto drops into the cave. To her credit, she doesn’t express any surprise about Tōshirō’s choice of companions, although Tōshirō is sure she hadn’t expected him to be training with the invaders, and instead shunpos directly over to his perch.

“ _Tōshirō_ ,” she gasps, and that is enough to lift him to his feet and gather his reiatsu about him, rearranging his zanpakuto to wait upon his back. For what, he hopes to be nothing, but with the execution forthcoming and Matsumoto’s frantic reiatsu dusting about them, Tōshirō cannot be sure.

He should stay and ensure Kurosaki’s safety, but even as his tongue tumbles through an excuse of why he has to depart, he knows there is nothing he can do for the man now. How the execution resolves is entirely up to Kurosaki – Tōshirō has played his part, and now another game is awaiting his next move.

“See you later, Tōshirō,” Kurosaki calls, his voice fierce and resolute and _strong_ with a power he can scarcely imagine, but it’s there, where it should be, and Tōshirō has every faith that he will succeed.

Still.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t _die_ ,” says the Guard, and the teenager’s laughter is the dawn of spring as winter’s clutch recedes.

Outside and waiting in a world that Tōshirō hasn’t seen for days, Matsumoto wastes no time in getting to the point. She launches into a shunpo that has then blazing over the streets, their footsteps light against the heavy midday air and the tension that it brings. The Seireitei seems quiet, impossibly, hauntingly quiet, and Tōshirō risks a glance at the towering shadow of the Sōkyoku as Matsumoto leads him away.

“Momo’s missing,” she says. “I want to find her and I want to stop the execution, but I think Gin’s involved and I don’t know what to do.”

A pace behind her, Tōshirō’s reply is steady despite the fear that chokes his throat. One of his butterflies is watching over his sister, so why had he not been informed of the danger she is in? What has happened to cause such a mistake? “What makes you think he is involved?” he asks, hoping for her sake that they are both wrong.

“Reach out for his reiraku,” she tells him, unquestioning of whether or not he can. “Then reach for Momo’s.”

Tōshirō does so, visualising the ribbons in all their crimson glory. Ichimaru’s is difficult to locate, a slippery, wavering thread in the distance, but Momo’s soon appears before his eyes, practically entwined with the captain’s. Wherever they are, they are together, and Tōshirō dismisses the reiraku without a word.

“That’s why,” says Matsumoto.

And before them like the endless doors of sin leading down into hell, the entrance to the Central Forty-Six opens wide. Ichimaru’s and Momo’s reiatsu trails down into the chamber – why, Tōshirō doesn’t know, but as he steps through the doorway and the walls appear to close in upon him, he knows it is for nothing good. The passageway is tight but Tōshirō presses on, Matsumoto just a step behind him as they enter the forbidden sanction of the government. Only nameless or condemned faces come and go through these corridors, and as the hallway opens out before them, Tōshirō can see why.

He has never stepped foot into the chamber of the Central Forty-Six before, but as he scans the empty, bloodless faces around him, he never wants to again. Forty-six men and women maintain their seats along the walls, but deformed in death they are slumped, the last moments of their life splattered around them in blackened sprays of fear. Tōshirō descends into the ring, a caged animal with wide, betrayed eyes, and Matsumoto follows him, cursing under her breath.

“They’ve been dead for days,” he mutters, running his fingers across the bloodstains, violent and dry against his skin. “How has nobody noticed…?”

“The Central Forty-Six has been in lock-down for the past few days,” Matsumoto tells him, looking equally horrified at the carnage. “Nobody has been in or out since it was sealed. This must have happened _before_ that, but that means...”

“The execution time was moved on _fake orders_ ,” Tōshirō says, exhaling sharply. He had been so wrapped up in Kurosaki’s training that he had forgotten the bigger picture! Of course the changes to the execution were suspicious, but he hadn’t given them a second’s thought beyond what they meant for Kurosaki. He _should_ have noticed this – he, more than anyone else. There is no excuse for this erroneous judgement.

“But why?” Matsumoto asks, horror-struck as the plot unravels in her mind. “Why does somebody want Kuchiki-san dead so badly?”

Tōshirō shakes his head. “No,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet hers. “Don’t you remember the letter? This might not be about Kuchiki at all.”

The captain is silent for a moment, recalling their previous conversation. Tōshirō still has the letter in his possession, and he would retrieve it to refresh her memory if he wasn’t certain that she remembers every last detail.

“The Sōkyoku!” she gasps. “Wait – are you saying that the person who killed Captain Aizen also killed all of these people?”

“Yes,” Tōshirō says, rubbing his fingers together as if trying to remove a bloody stain. The stench of death is thick about the room, and weaving in and out of the piling bodies are two reiatsu trails, freshly left in the wake of hurried footsteps. Ichimaru led Momo here for a reason, and perhaps that reason was simply to get them to follow.

“Come,” commands the Guard, beckoning the captain along. His haori trails across the floorboards, its wintry beauty sullying in the gore, but his stride remains determined as he marches from the chamber. He knows exactly who killed the Central Forty-Six, and all that is left to do now is to find him.

Ichimaru’s reiatsu spans out across the Seireitei, a silvery path to the truth. They trail along it over rooftops, through streets, and under the high noon sun until it flickers in the golden rays, blossoming yellow for the briefest of moments. Behind the Guard, Matsumoto draws a sharp breath at the change, but Tōshirō has no time to query her reaction before a shinigami is upon them. They dodge, jumping in opposite directions, and Tōshirō hears the sound of metal clashing against metal as he skids across a roof of tiles.

“Go!” Matsumoto shouts to him, growling a curse as Lieutenant Kira unleashes his power. “For god’s sake, Kira, what are you _doing_?”

“I’m sorry, Captain,” replies the blonde, his fringe casting shadow across his downcast expression. “But I’ve been told to delay you as long as I can.”

He lifts his zanpakuto, the hooked shape catching in the sunlight. Dark, sorrowful eyes glance from the captain to the Royal Guard, but before the lieutenant can comprehend the threat that Tōshirō presents, the Guard has disappeared in a flash.

 _Perhaps_ , Tōshirō thinks as his shunpo carries him away from the fight, _leaving Matsumoto out of this is the best option_.

His destination only cements this belief. The residential district of the Central Forty-Six is off-limits to everybody, and it does not bode well if Ichimaru has led them here. It is an ideal base of operations for a man believed to be dead, after all, especially one that has already killed all of the residents, but Tōshirō has no time to hesitate. Ensuring that his reiatsu is undetectable, he ducks inside the closest building, searching for the reiatsu that he knows will be here –

“Hmm,” says Gin Ichimaru, stepping from the shadows. His smile is playfully sinister and as unsettling as Tōshirō recalls – a viper, a fox, and a madman rolled into one. The Third Division haori billows out behind him, an emblem of his power, stark in its betrayal, and in the shadow of his stride tiptoes Momo, deer-like and small.

“Of all of the people we expected to cause a little _trouble_ ,” the captain goes on, approaching the Guard like a phantom eager for mischief. “We did not expect _you_ , Tōshirō-kun.”

Momo startles, peeking around the captain’s ominous form to squeak at the sight of her brother standing in the centre of the hall. Yet she says nothing, terror holding her tongue, and Tōshirō prays for her safety as he readies himself for the confrontation sneaking out from the shadows.

He does not know if Aizen is listening, but Tōshirō is willing to take that chance if it means diverting an unforgiveable betrayal.

“Ichimaru,” he says, the greeting almost civil. The captain’s smile widens at the tone, but Tōshirō refuses to let the grinning snarl disturb him any more than it already does. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh?” Ichimaru replies with a hint of surprise. He ceases his approach just a few feet away, and Momo shuffles up behind him like a puppy on a tiny lease. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Tōshirō growls, narrowing his eyes, and Ichimaru laughs.

“Playing the mediator, are we?” he says, tilting his head like a curious animal; a vulture inspecting its prey. “My, how noble of you.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” the Guard snaps, and this time Ichimaru does falter, his silence lasting a second too long to be anything else. Sweat trickles down Tōshirō’s neck, and his hair stands on end as Ichimaru hums. Tōshirō does not press his point, and for days and weeks after this moment he will wonder if he should have – if he should have mentioned her _name_ before it was too late. But he doesn’t, and he holds his breath, and he waits for something that will not come as Sōsuke Aizen steps into the room.

“Oh look who it is!” Ichimaru singsongs. “ _What_ a surprise.”

Tōshirō turns around, realising now that he is caught in the middle of a trap – Ichimaru, behind him, blocks Momo from reach, and Aizen, walking towards him with a smile of old friends reuniting. Yet, behind that smile is a wolf waiting in the dark, and the captain of the Fifth Division _prowls_ forward to his prey.

Momo’s whisper is a scream into the silence.

“Don’t cry Hinamori-chan, it’s okay,” soothes the traitor, presenting a kind, comforting face to the lieutenant as she sniffs, overwhelmed with emotion. “Everything will be okay.”

His expression makes Tōshirō feel sick, and the captain seems to take delight in this as his eyes glance from the distraught lieutenant to the Guard. His eyes remain transfixed on the moonlight-shrouded shinigami even as Momo continues to mutter, sounding torn, and Tōshirō grits his teeth at the scrutiny, wanting desperately to unleash Hyorinmaru on the _bastard’s_ face.

“No,” says Momo, her gasp loud enough to be audible this time. “No – _Captain Aizen_ – Captain Aizen it _can’t_ be you –”

“It is me,” he replies, but for some reason he moves no closer, either wary of the Guard’s abilities or wary of something in Momo’s _tone_ –

Tōshirō turns towards his sister, unable to mask his fear, and her eyes widen at his expression. Her mouth moves soundlessly, repeating words that nobody can hear, and then she pales impossibility white – white enough to match the panic on his face; a warning, a fear, and the _truth_.

“ _Please_!” she shrieks, and though he doesn’t understand what she is begging for, Tōshirō has shunpoed past Ichimaru before Momo’s zanpakuto _chinks_ out of its sheath.

The sound of Tobiume snapping into action surprises both of the traitors, but already a step ahead of them, Tōshirō slams into his sister as she releases her shikai; she screams, tears bespattering his cheek, and a great fireball _blazes_ across the room. It misses Aizen’s twisted smile by a hair but he seems unconcerned, brushing away the ashes as Momo continues to screech unintelligible words. A second fireball erupts with a seagull cry – Ichimaru swivels past it, bony reach grasping for Momo’s shihakushō, and Tōshirō drives ice into the ground as he explodes into a shunpo, launching his sister away.

He just manages to reach the stairwell before Ichimaru is upon them. Zanpakuto in hand and his smile as sharp as diamonds, the captain’s reiatsu plummets down. Tōshirō throws himself to the side to avoid the blade, but before he can manoeuvre Momo over his shoulder to free up his hands, the lieutenant has ripped herself away, zanpakuto ablaze.

“ _You_!” she yells, and Tōshirō follows her back into the madness with a shout. He blocks a strike with a lightning-fast kido, sweeping it into Ichimaru’s arm, and leaps forward to knock Momo away from Shinsō’s viper extension; the zanpakuto edge carves into the floorboards, shattering splinters of wood into the air. A swing of Momo’s zanpakuto combusts them all into a rain of volcanic ashes, and they scatter into the fight, joining the tears upon her face.

“YOU!” she screams again, and she’s shouting at Aizen; she’s shouting at _her captain_ as he steps forth with his zanpakuto in hand and a smile, sweet and lovely and _cruel_ with a façade of years in the making upon his face – one which contorts his features and lights up the amusement in his eyes.

“Oh, Hinamori-chan,” he murmurs, his voice soft against the chaos of the room. “I expected so much _better_ of you.”

Tōshirō twists, fear and desperation propelling him forward. Hyorinmaru vibrates at his back, roaring to be released into the sky, but he doesn’t even _think_ to reach for the power of his soul as he lunges at Momo, _praying_ that he can reach her before –

The room blazes, screaming. Smoke obscures his vision, blurring white and black and brown and red together into terror and hate and _pain_. The walls tremble, the very world itself quaking under the pressure, and a voice rings out above it all, smooth and delighted, and murmuring a phrase that Tōshirō has never heard in his life yet he fears all the same –

“Shatter, Kyōka Suigetsu.”

Then there’s fire, and ice, and laughter. There’s blood spraying across smiles and tears, and there’s nothing in the world that can stop Tōshirō’s descent as he crumbles to the ground, his eyes blind to the source of the screams, and his chest carved open by his failures, sorrow and regret splattered around him in scarlet.

Reiatsu howls, Antarctica calling.

And Aizen walks away.

 

 

 

And now – it falls.

 

 

 

 _Oh_ , the sky collapses around the moon.

 

 

 

Tōshirō wakes, and his first thought is _why_.

The second is somewhat less cognisant than that, but as he rolls his weary head towards the sound of songbirds and the steady, endless rhythm of a hospital to find Kurosaki lying beside him, Tōshirō doesn’t care. Grumbling at the wave of agony it causes, the Guard reaches out to the teen, surprised at how close they are. Their beds are hardly a foot apart, it seems, but Tōshirō is glad as he finds Kurosaki’s wrist and the pulse that beats through it. Apparently, the young man is strong even in unconsciousness, and Tōshirō manages a smile as he rolls the other way, inspecting his surroundings now that he knows Kurosaki is well.

There is no doubt that they are housed in the Fourth Division, but it is quieter than he expected. How long he has been slumbering is unknown, but the Seireitei does not sound on the edge of war, so it must have been a while. Cursing, for he does not remember how he got here, or much at all, in fact, Tōshirō tries to heave himself up and instantly regrets it, his entire torso begging at him to remain still.

“Ow,” he says stupidly, clutching at his ribs.

Beside him, Kurosaki laughs weakly, and Tōshirō would have jumped through the roof had he the energy to move.

“Hey,” says the substitute, blinking through the lingering holds of sleep. He doesn’t quite achieve a smile through the layers of exhaustion in his demeanour, but his eyes are as bright as his hair, almost burning in the sunlight. “Guess he got us both, huh?”

“I suppose,” Tōshirō mumbles, the memory struggling to push through the fog of sleep in his mind. There is something important that he has to remember, but he feels tired enough to sleep for a week – or another one, depending on the date. Yet, he searches his brain for conversation, and only one thought succeeds in triumphing his yawn:

“Did you… stop the execution?” he asks, hoping the words are correct.

(Then he yawns).

The question must mean something to Kurosaki, for he grins through his haze of pain, looking as if he has just conquered the world.

“Hell yeah I did. You should have seen Rukia’s _face_.”

He laughs, and Tōshirō returns something that sounds similar.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. “Did you achieve bankai?”

Kurosaki’s face drops, and for a second, Tōshirō thinks the worst. “Yeah,” says the ginger, the success of his words challenging the frown on his face. Yet, there seems to be no explanation for his contradicting behaviour except whatever is tumbling through his mind – thoughts that the Guard can only imagine.

“Hey, Tōshirō,” Kurosaki says eventually, mirroring Tōshirō’s previous reach with a heavy, bandaged arm. Melancholy weights his complexion, but there is pride in his eyes, and a fear that seems out of place. “Remember when you said that I should tell you if I hear a voice…?”

Tōshirō says nothing, but the memories rush back – Matsumoto, bankai training, the strange mask, and Momo’s confrontation with Aizen. He holds his breath, waiting for the teenager to go on, and wishes he had the energy to uncoil his reiatsu in search of answers.

“Well. There was one. When I used bankai during my fight with Byakuya. He said – the voice – he said he didn’t have a name, so I don’t know who…”

Kurosaki finishes his thought with silence, uncertain in his recollection. He yawns and rubs at his eyes, seeming to smudge the shadows on his skin, and outside the sun begins to dim to make way for the rising of the moon.

Dusk settles over the Seireitei, the end of an era approaching.

Deciding that they could both do with some more sleep, Tōshirō leans over and gently takes Kurosaki’s wrist, encouraging the man to bury himself back under the bed sheet. Although he looks surprised, Kurosaki complies to the motions, watching how the Guard’s face tinges ever so slightly with embarrassment.

“Guess you’re right,” he mumbles, turning into the pillow so that his auburn fringe flops over his eyes. “We can worry about this later.”

Tōshirō mumbles his assent and closes his eyes, willing sleep to carry away his fears.

There are many things to do, but for now, with the weight of the world turning without them, everything can wait for another day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be moving away from the canon timeline even more beginning with the next chapter, so expect lots of Ichigo and Toshiro being the protective, hotheaded idiots they are :3
> 
> As ever, I'd love to hear what you thought, so please leave a comment as you go~
> 
>  
> 
> **Extra end note: Momo's behaviour**
> 
>  
> 
> As I'm sure some of you are aware, because everything is in my head, I'm not always very good at explaining things in fic. So, just in case anybody is burning to have Momo's behaviour explained because it makes absolutely no sense (and I really hope that's not the case), I thought I'd leave a note here. I will be coming back to Momo in subsequent chapters, of course. She is too important to Toshiro to ignore, so if you don't mind waiting for that, then feel free to skip this. If not, lets see if I can make some more sense :)
> 
> Sometimes, little changes mean everything. In canon, there are two things which I believe absolutely vital to Momo's behaviour: 1) the confrontation of Toshiro and Ichimaru after Momo breaks out of prison and reveals the contents of the letter. 2) the fact that said letter lays the blame on Toshiro
> 
> Honestly, you can boil down everything to the second one. In canon, Momo is torn between her captain and Toshiro. In canon, Aizen pins Toshiro as the murderer, and asks that Momo enact his final wish and kill Toshiro. At this point, Momo is very, very confused and scared, and she doesn't know what to believe. She's vulnerable because her captain - the man she adored - has been killed, and apparently her closest friend/family/whatever you view Toshiro as is the one who killed him.
> 
> However. In this story, Toshiro is not around in Soul Society. He is not a feasible person for Aizen to blame. I do not explicitly state the switch in this story, but in the letter, Toshiro is not labelled at the murderer. Now, take into account that before Momo received the letter in the previous chapter, Toshiro went and visited her. He comforted her, assured her that he would tell her the truth, and placed his trust in her. And, in turn, Momo placed her trust in him. In this story, she trusts him. In this story, she never considers him a murderer.
> 
> In addition, I added the part with Matsumoto. Now, it's subtle because the story does not follow Matsumoto, but after meeting Toshiro and talking about the letter, she returns to comfort Momo. And they talk. About happy things. About distracting things. About how Momo is feeling. About Toshiro and about Ichimaru and about Aizen. Don't forget, at this point Matsumoto has her own suspicions, and so they confide in each other. Of course, Matsumoto does not outright admit that she thinks there's something odd about Aizen's letter, but it will be implied in the conversation.
> 
> Then, like in canon, Ichimaru leads Momo to Aizen. But unlike canon, Ichimaru has to break Momo out of prison and lead her, unwillingly, to Aizen. This is made pretty clear by Momo's fear and distress. She's terrified of Ichimaru. She doesn't want to go with him. She understands that something is wrong and she does not trust Ichimaru. But she trusts Toshiro. So when he turns up "unable to mask his fear", Momo starts to make the connection between her previous conversations with Toshiro and Matsumoto, the letter, her apprehension of Ichimaru, and why Toshiro is so terrified in Aizen's presence.
> 
> And she lashes out because she is scared and though she does not completely understand yet, she understands enough to know that she has been _betrayed_ by a man she trusted.
> 
> And I hope that clears up any questions :)


	4. Ichigo II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _enkindle the wings_ has [fanart](http://mymomomo.tumblr.com/post/114969324467/lets-just-say-i-was-moved-toushiro-from/) !! You should totally go and check it out :D (THANK YOU MOMO)
> 
> Slightly shorter chapter this time. There's talking. And more talking. And even more talking. But the truth begins to come out :)
> 
> Please enjoy!

 

There is a conversation occurring when Ichigo drifts into consciousness. It murmurs about him with the rumbles of prosody through the last of his blanketing slumber, and although the words are merely noise when they should be language, syntactically unspoiled, Ichigo can understand the exchange simply from the tone. There is a healer in the room, and she explains matters to her patient with a voice strict with kindness and interrupted infrequently, the patient’s pitch a reprimanded mumble in comparison. Exhaustion jumbling his thoughts, for a moment Ichigo wonders if _he_ is the subject of her lecture, but his mouth is quick to remind him otherwise as it emits a hoary groan of muscles long since used. The conversation halts then, motherly chide giving way to surprise, and a blob glides into Ichigo’s visual field, the parallel black and white lines that construct it making his eyes cross.

“Good morning Kurosaki-san, I am Retsu Unohana,” says the monochrome shape, her welcome as gentle as her touch, carefully dotting along his elbow. “Please lower your arm so I may be permitted to take your blood pressure.”

Ichigo replies with a sound that might have been a curse, or _blergh_ , or a questioning _wassit_ that was likely supposed to be coherent, but he dutifully gives the woman his arm. His compliance rewards him with the monitoring cuff attaching to his arm, except it doesn’t quite feel as corporal as he expects. He can only wonder about what strange hospital he has awoken to before his arm is squeezed, compressed, and just generally inflicted with the most uncomfortable sensation known to man.

“Ninety-five over seventy,” she announces, removing the torturous hold. “Still a little low for you, Kurosaki-san. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just been hit by a truck,” Ichigo replies honestly, following the healer’s motions around the bed. The haori draped over her shoulders embodies her as a captain, but there does not appear to be a zanpakuto in sight. This does not reassure Ichigo – in fact, it only serves to heighten his wariness of the captain. Clearly, she is a force to be reckoned with despite her tender smiles and the soothing air about her.

“I rather imagine that Sōsuke Aizen has seldom been likened to a _truck_ , but perhaps the comparison is not too far off the mark. You are fortunate that the damage to your spinal cord was minimal – your organs, conversely, will require a few more days of bed rest.”

“Great,” Ichigo grumbles, and though the captain responds with a smile, he feels as if he has been thoroughly reproached for his sarcasm.

“On the other hand,” Unohana continues, her smile remaining just as terrifyingly sweet. She turns back to address the other patient in the room now, but whoever it may be is beyond Ichigo’s sight as he blinks up at the ceiling. “Provided you do not aggravate your injuries further, Guard Hitsugaya, you are free to go about your duties. I will register you as an outpatient, if that will suffice?”

Ichigo nods along to her words, pretending not to be tuned out of the conversation. The other patient is no business of his, after all, and though he doesn’t want to miss any subsequent information that the healer may have for him, Ichigo reaches for Zangetsu’s presence, gladly submerging himself in the tranquil musings of his other half. Yet, as soon as he is assured that his zanpakuto is well, Zangetsu gives him a metaphysical prod back into the waking world, and Ichigo grumbles his confusion just as the patient’s voice drifts across the room:

“Thank you for you care, Captain Unohana,” Guard Hitsugaya replies, his voice beyond soft, like snow melting into oblivion, but still Tōshirō’s all the same. His chair creaks to suggest that he bows, but Ichigo cannot see what disarray has lowered the shinigami’s head. “I am in your debt.”

Unohana gives a little laugh, gathering up her equipment. “It was no concern of mine.”

Ichigo stares at the light fitting on the ceiling, wondering where he has heard that particular phrase before. It doesn’t sit right with him, but he is unable to pinpoint the memory as the captain adds something just as cryptic before gliding out of the room. The door slides shut after her departure, returning the backdrop of birdsong and the gentle swish of fabric across the floor. It is a familiar sound with warmth in its coldness, and peace in its blizzardy approach, and Ichigo tilts his head to greet the silvery figure all wrapped up in snow.

“Tōshirō?” he asks, for there is nothing but question in the name; thoughts he cannot determine, but gather imperative upon his tongue.

The shinigami drops into the seat beside the bed, arranging his kimono about him. He seems pale – paler than usual, snow fallen out of season – and the sharpness of his eyes is smudged by shadows, a weariness that sleep cannot stay. Sickness hunches his shoulders and shrinks his body – blood loss, perhaps, or a loss of something that cannot be replaced, intangible and profound.

(Something like a secret, its guard crumbled away).

Yet, Tōshirō attempts a smile. It looks misused upon his face, the great iceberg of his mask melting away. Behind it, an expression of a boy lost in the depths of a lie burns through, and it is one that Ichigo has seen before, back when their encounters had begun.

_Who are you_ , he wants to ask, but Tōshirō’s silence is unsettling, and Ichigo holds his tongue. He does not know if there will be another moment like this, two friends and two strangers face-to-face. He does not know this man before him, but he does, instinctively, as if he has always known, but never had the words to define this being – this man who walks with gods.

“Ah,” says Tōshirō, no doubt understanding the search of Ichigo’s gaze. Little escapes his notice; bright with a mind of a candlelit library, the world turns at a different pace for his thoughts, a constellation of happenings beyond mortal comprehension.

However, something has changed recently. Tōshirō’s virtuosity is indisputable, but as Ichigo watches the calm pondering of words upon his companion’s face, the wintry shinigami seems less… extravagant… no… less _unreachable_ than before.

(Less everything – and more).

Ichigo smiles back at his friend’s hesitation. Maybe _who are you_ is not the correct question. Tōshirō is Tōshirō, a man of mismatched expressions and morals of an unwavering loyalty for what he believes in, and maybe _Guard Hitsugaya_ , whoever he may be, does not matter.

“What’s wrong?” the substitute asks instead, reaching out to give Tōshirō’s extensive kimono a tug. There is no pool to yank the shinigami into this time, but Tōshirō startles as if there is something before him to tumble into, a hazardous spring in which he will not leave the same.

“There is nothing wrong,” comes the snappish reply, an automatic breath of denial.

“Uh-huh,” Ichigo says, ignoring the way Tōshirō scowls, ruffling like a disgruntled bird as he swats the substitute away from his attire. “You’re a liar.”

Resistance drains from Tōshirō’s demeanour, a wash of exhaustion returning to colour his skin like a deathly sheet pulled over his bones. “…I suppose I am,” he mumbles, and though he does not make a sound, his entire body seems to sigh.

“Hey,” Ichigo says, interrupting the shinigami’s remorseful silence. He knocks his knuckles against Tōshirō’s knee, and though he cannot explain why, the urge to press his hand over Tōshirō’s grumbled complaints sparks through him. Ichigo does not often express himself through touch except in the case of his family, but for a second he wants to ruffle Tōshirō’s hair and hug him until the protests die away.

_Weird_ , he thinks, and then promptly spares no further thought for it.

“Tell me what’s up. This is to do with what that healer-lady called you, isn’t it? Sheep guard or something?”

He intends for it to have a serious tone, but something in his question makes the shinigami splutter, wintry complexion colouring scarlet. Clearly, Ichigo has the wrong end of the stick, but he wasn’t sure he could place the _right_ end, to be frank.

“ _Sheep_ –!” Tōshirō gasps, looking horrified. “No – _no_. Hitsu – _Hitsugaya_ is my _name_.”

There is a deeper meaning in those words, but the nature of the implications struggles to find comprehension in Ichigo’s weary head. “Oh. Cool,” he says, a little uncertainly. “Is that your family name?”

“Yes of course that’s my –” the other stops, as if realising something, and then seems to curse to the heavens with the widening of his eyes. “My given name is _Tōshirō_.”

Ichigo blinks, mirroring Tōshirō’s expression in an almost comical fashion. “What – _really_?”

A slow, reluctant nod. “Yes.”

“So all this time…?”

“ _Yes_.”

Ichigo’s mind takes a second to process that. Above him, Tōshirō chews on his lip with an awkward expression of amusement, but there is a worry in his eyes, a fear of rejection that he cannot hide.

“Oh my god,” the ginger breathes, mouth falling open as their first conversation buzzes in his ears. He had _known_ that there was something he was missing, but he would have never imagined it to be staring him in the _face_. “You made me think –”

“I know,” Tōshirō whispers.

“I thought it was a _nickname_ –”

“ _Forgive me_.”

“You bastard,” Ichigo blurts with laughter in his voice. Embarrassment burns the tip of his ears; he wants to smother his stupidity in the pillow and never surface again. Christ, he is as thick as a _rock_ in comparison to Tōshirō’s brilliant mind – he is the _Grand Canyon_ of obliviousness. “Shit, I am such an _idiot_.”

Tōshirō looks mortified, and all Ichigo can do is laugh.

“Tōshirō Hitsugaya, huh?” he says once his laughter has subsided and the wintry shinigami appears ready to cascade through the floor. The name feels odd on his tongue, but Ichigo likes the sound of its completion rolling through his lips. “And you’re a Guard?”

He grins up at his friend, hoping to share in his carefree attitude. A glance at Tōshirō’s alarm is all that is needed for Ichigo’s smile to drop; tense, the air stills around them, bowed by a secret greater than the one laughed between them. The terrible weight of repentance stares down at him with storms for eyes and fire for a tongue, dimmed, wavering, and charring at the edges.

Tōshirō has more to say, but it seems that (this time) it is he who cannot find the words.

Outside, birds twitter in their hundreds, a flock descending gossip upon the Seireitei. In the corridor beyond the room, medics, patients, and visitors go about their days with scattered paces across the floorboards. Voices come and go, orders, laughter and the brief, confused mumbles of Fourth Division shinigami in search of their superior officers. The crisis is over for now, and the days dawn with a respite well-deserved for most, but for those who experienced the betrayal first-hand, there is a tension about of the times soon to come.

The birdsong stops with the rush of flight, a thousand wings beating into the sky. Tōshirō turns towards the window, and some of his weariness seems to fade in the light, warmed by the glow of the sun.

Ichigo does not know what he sees, but when he turns back, the secret he holds so close has melted away.

“ _Guard_ is a form of address created for practicality’s sake,” Tōshirō begins, straightening so that he sits taller in his chair, royalty attempting to find his home upon the throne. “My title is more than that – unique, just as my colleagues’ are – and it was bestowed upon me by the King. Few are privy to that information, and so we are merely the _Royal Guard_ to most, the elite chosen by the King. It is our duty to protect the Soul King so that he can maintain the balance between the realms. We seldom involve ourselves with the lands beyond our own, for we are to be concerned with the will of the King, and no more.”

He rolls his eyes here in such a way that Ichigo was likely not meant to witness, and though the substitute doesn’t fully understand the exasperation, he smiles as he remembers Tōshirō’s failing insistence of anonymity. By the time Renji had popped the _who are you_ question in his own gruff manner (“Oi, who’s the kid snowman?”) Tōshirō had seemed ready for the ground to swallow him up.

“I have been assigned to watch over you, and I have done so for some years now.” Then the Guard dips his head, an apology in his bow. It is a formality they have not shared for some time now, and Ichigo does not hide his disapproval as Tōshirō adds, “Forgive me for my deception.”

“Well,” Ichigo begins, struggling with finding the words to reply to the knowledge-dump that his friend has just dropped upon him. In Tōshirō’s defence, Ichigo _had_ asked for the insight, but now the auburn haired substitute can only motion with gestures of the words he wants to say, an overwhelmed silence settling between them.

_Who’s this Soul King dude_ is the first fragment of coherence that comes to mind, but Tōshirō is still bowing like he’s done something _wrong_ , as if Ichigo needs to _forgive him_ , and the young man flailing in the hospital bed flails even more, a gigantic goldfish gasping out of water.

“You weren’t _really_ lying,” he tries to counter, displeased that his scowl is not fierce enough to raise Tōshirō’s head.

“An omission of truth is a lie, Kurosaki-san,” is the Guard’s solemn reply, and Ichigo tuts, aware that a playful punch to Tōshirō’s side would be less than appreciated with his injury – and personality.

“People lie all of the time,” he states, adding a _well-it’s-true_ shrug when his companion makes a startled noise; offense, almost, the logic too damming to argue against. Slowly, Tōshirō lifts his head, seeming unappeased by the shortcomings of his apology, but Ichigo honestly couldn’t care less for the flowery language of propriety.

“You’ve been helping me,” he says with a sharp, _I-dare-you-to-argue-with-me_ look. “Don’t apologise for that. You stopped me from doing some really stupid things, you know. Yoruichi-san would’ve had my head.”

The argument is simple in his mind, but Tōshirō still seems a little wary of Ichigo’s good-graces. Regret carves years into his complexion – into his scowl and his eyes, the boy lost to the world having aged by what he’s seen.

“Look at it this way,” Ichigo goes on cheerfully, scratching his cheek in lieu of rubbing his neck. Looking back at the events of the past few days, Tōshirō really _had_ prevented him from doing some ridiculous things. Ichigo is grateful for that, if not somewhat embarrassed at his lack of impulse-control. “When you weren’t around, I flew off and tried to take on _two_ captains. Yoruichi-san had to punch me through the gut to get me to stop, which seemed extreme at the time, yeah, but I suppose I have to give her _some_ credit…”

He winces at the memory, and then laughs nervously at the flicker of _danger!_ at the edges of Tōshirō’s reiatsu, the menace of an iceberg revealing itself from the depths. _Whoops_ , thinks the substitute, attempting to sooth the impending storm with a grin, _guess I hadn’t told him about that one_.

“Really,” he blurts before the Guard can act upon his fury. “I’m much more level-headed when you’re around so…”

The rest of the sentence is silence, an ending unknown even to him. There are phrases that Ichigo could tack onto the end, simple, almost meaningless words, but he wants to say more than that; he wants to express himself in a way that he cannot discern. His tongue is halfway there, uttering words before his mind can form the sentence, and though Ichigo isn’t _quite_ sure where he had intended to go with his declaration, Tōshirō seems to understand.

A sigh slips between Tōshirō’s lips, snowflakes glimmering in the air. The words they have left unsaid shiver against the dragon’s breath, tiny shards of ice crackling as the Guard’s reiatsu mellows. Then, the wintry shinigami mumbles something that might have been _so am I_ (although words of an entirely different meaning are just as likely), and pushes a hand through his fringe. His shoulders slump, his eyes roll, and then he is Tōshirō again – tired, exasperated, _I’m-going-to-cross-my-arms-until-you-cease-this-stupidity_ and all.

Ichigo would give a little victory wiggle if he weren’t ordered to bed-rest and pained with the reason why. Instead, his stomach rumbles, and the last lingering tension fizzles away with an embarrassed cough as Tōshirō’s responds in kind.

“Perhaps I should go and request some breakfast?” asks Tōshirō, glancing towards the door with a contemplative expression.

Wordlessly, Ichigo nods an assent. He can appreciate the shinigami’s confusion – nobody has disturbed them since the captain had left, and that does strike him as odd. He offers his thanks, aware that he isn’t in any position to find food for himself, feeling glad that the awkwardness has passed between them. There is still much to talk about and many questions to be asked, but for now, he is content with what he has learned.

He likes Tōshirō better than Guard Hitsugaya anyway.

“Hey,” Ichigo adds, stopping his friend as he reaches the door. He reaches out although he cannot cross the distance between them, and then stares at his hand as it hangs uselessly from the bed.

Tōshirō raises an eyebrow, but dutifully pauses before opening the door.

Ichigo bobs his hand up and down in a weird beckoning motion before saying, “Won’t that let people know that you’re here?”

The reply is sighed in a blue tone as Tōshirō shakes his head, a tiny motion that doesn’t assure Ichigo in the slightest. “Don’t worry, I imagine it doesn’t matter now,” he says, which isn’t a _yes_ or a _no_ , and thus doesn’t sit right with Ichigo as the door clicks shut behind the Guard’s swift departure.

He says nothing, wondering why it had sounded like a lie.

 

 

 

Perhaps twenty minutes later, a nurse arrives with some protein-slop for him that she tries to pass as food. Ichigo battles his way through the meal by pretending that it’s porridge, but every half-bite, half-slurp rewards him with a gruelling reminder of the truth. He’s hungry enough not to voice his complaints though, and not before long, the nurse is checking his vitals with one of those spectacular healing lights that Ichigo really needs to learn, and then dismissing herself for other duties.

Tōshirō does not return, so Ichigo settles down and tries to doze with the taste of processed hospital food in his mouth and his mind whirring with thoughts of how reishi-particle food can even _be_ reduced to such a state.

The duration of his slumber is anybody’s guess. He drifts between reality and dream, sometimes unsure of the divide in this unfamiliar, historical world. Voices speak to him, some far, some close, but never understandable, and Ichigo is too tired to reply. He thinks he wakes once, or twice, to the sensation of fingers through his hair, but he deems it unlikely as he slips away again, soothed by the caress of the stranger, an intimacy long-since felt.

When consciousness returns with the glaring white hospital walls and the thrum of reiatsu against his skin, there is somebody sitting at Ichigo’s bedside. Although the newcomer’s presence is larger than Tōshirō’s – the jolliness of spring enduring throughout the years, an old oak blossoming, rather than Tōshirō’s subtle watch from the mountaintops – Ichigo has to do a double-take when he awakens. The man seems not to notice the mishap, and instead smiles brightly down at the patient, his sheer-white hair stunning in its length as it brushes across the dimples that his happiness forms.

“Hello. How are you feeling?” says the stranger, reaching forward to help Ichigo sit up. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Huh? No, it’s okay, you didn’t,” Ichigo replies, bumbling through his gratitude as he slouches into the pillow. Somehow, the new angle makes the man’s hair seem even _longer_ , and he cannot help but stare as his memory scrambles for an identity. “ _Oh_ – you’re Rukia’s captain.”

“Yes,” replies the captain, sounding delighted. His smile widens to an impossible size and his reiatsu swishes about him, glowing like the happiest man alive. “We’ve met before, but only briefly. I am Jūshirō Ukitake of the Thirteenth Division. It’s nice to meet you properly this time, Kurosaki-san. I hope you don’t think me too forward for this visit – we only wished to thank you.”

Ichigo opens his mouth to question the pronoun use, but then the door slides open, and a man cloaked in vibrant pink florae and an overlarged straw hat stumbles in, looking for all intents and purposes like a mischievous student hiding from the headmistress. Yet, there is an age about him suggested by more than just his beard; his smile is playful but his eyes are sharp, and though he skips into the room like a merry intoxication, his feet are grounded in assurance and his steps, though light, rock thunder through the floor. His body declares his presence like the rumble of a war-drum announcing the night, and his reiatsu whispers, clawing like shadows through the walls.

_I am here_ , it utters with the strength of a thousand men behind its words.

**I am here**.

A breath slices through Ichigo’s mouth, shock freezing down his throat. The jerk of his shoulders is involuntary as his nerves explode, reflexes zapping through his body. This man is unfamiliar, but his reiatsu is a darkness across his dreams, a shadow that he has encountered before. Fear clogs on his tongue, but it’s not his own – no, it’s Tōshirō’s from days ago, a prey’s wariness fleeing from the Eighth Division’s courtyard.

“Shunsui Kyoraku you are a _liar_ ,” Ukitake says then, laughing boldly into the air of confrontation. “You _have_ met before.”

Behind him, the other captain shuffles with a guilty look and scuffs his shoes into the floor. “Now, now, Jūshirō, I wouldn’t quite say we’d _met_ …”

He chuckles awkwardly and runs his fingers over the brim of his hat. Ichigo stares at him, willing his heart to _calm the fuck down_ before it bursts through his chest and leaves behind a messy splodge of terror for Tōshirō to roll his eyes at later.

Ukitake glances between them, taking in their mirroring postures of tension. “Oh _honestly_ ,” he says, throwing an exasperated look over his shoulder. “Shunsui, get over here. Cowering by the door isn’t going to solve anything. And I apologise Kurosaki-san, I promise he won’t bite. We just came to see how you were.”

Ukitake’s smile is something to be believed, Ichigo is sure, but as the shadowy captain walks over with his tail between his legs, he can’t decide which of the two men he should be more scared of.

“Err, well, I’m alright, thanks,” Ichigo says, eyeing Kyoraku as the man drags over a chair. “I mean, apart from having no idea what day it is…”

(He’s not trying to get them to leave, but he maybe kind of is).

“It’s Thursday,” Ukitake replies, which is not a particularly helpful response to be frank. Yoruichi had tried to explain how time worked in Soul Society, and adding on their near-death experience with the train-thing in the tunnel, Thursday could mean almost _anything_. “Since your discussion with Retsu – that is, Captain Unohana – you slept for two days. I must say, you’ve had plenty of disappointed visitors in that time! Your friends were reluctant to leave after they heard that you awoke, only to have missed you once again.”

Although he feels a burn of embarrassment at this information (Christ, people who watch him while he sleeps are _weird_ ), Ichigo is relieved to hear that his friends are not confined to the Fourth Division. Their injuries had not been as severe, and Ichigo would rather never leave the hospital than know that he had put his friends in one.

“Chad and the others are okay? What about Rukia? And Renji? And –”

He stops before he can say _Tōshirō_ , but Ukitake nods all the same with a smile that is gradually becoming unsettling. Kyoraku is the face of tranquillity beside him, but at least there is not a permanent smile stuck onto his face. How anybody can be so happy for so long is _beyond_ Ichigo.

“They are all well, I assure you,” Ukitake replies, patting Ichigo on the knee in a bizarre paternal display. “They have been busy helping with the repairs of the Seireitei and will be happy to hear that you have awoken. Even your more elusive friend has made himself useful.”

The captains share a look, chuckling at a joke only they can understand. Ichigo is sure they are referring to Tōshirō, but he stays quiet as the men continue with their laughter.

“Tricky to pin down, that one,” Kyoraku says, tilting back his hat. “I do wonder how his captain managed.”

“I imagine Hitsugaya-san was different as a third seat,” the other corrects with a tone of soft reminisce. They appear to have forgotten Ichigo entirely, enwrapped in the memories that Tōshirō has exposed. “Captain Matsumoto said they loved teasing him. He probably doesn’t get teased much in the Royal Guard.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Kyoraku says, humming thoughtfully as he slouches back into his chair. At the light bantering, the last of his tension has seeped away, and now he seems as threatening as a slumbering panther, rather than one on the prowl. Ichigo still wouldn’t want to poke him with a foot long stick, but his own body finally relaxes as the Eighth Division captain continues, “Hikifune was always a character.”

Ukitake agrees with a short laugh. “I’m sure his captain would be proud,” he adds more seriously, looking equal parts sad and happy as he goes on. “My, they do grow up so fast, don’t they?”

The conversation lulls to a halt as the captains retreat to their own thoughts. Ichigo glances between them, wondering if he should say something. These two men live in a world vastly different to his own, but their banter like schoolchildren and laugh like old men, and Ichigo cannot help but feel a little fond. Powerful they may be, they are human (or they were) at the end of the day, and Ichigo _is_ curious about their past with Tōshirō.

They seem to be implying that Tōshirō had once been a shinigami of the Gotei Thirteen. It would make sense, Ichigo supposes, but he hadn’t even thought to look past Tōshirō’s declaration that he isn’t affiliated with the Seireitei. At the time, that was all the information Ichigo needed to trust him, but he realises now that it doesn’t mean that Tōshirō hadn’t _ever_ been a part of this society. Tōshirō has family here, and if Ukitake and Kyoraku are to be believed, then he was seated quite highly in a division once upon a time.

Ichigo should be asking Tōshirō for more information, but the two captains before him are providing the perfect opportunity and he can’t really miss it. He doubts they will share anything that Tōshirō would consider private – that is, assuming they even knew Tōshirō that well, and Ichigo rather imagines this not to be the case. Tōshirō is a private person – Ichigo wonders how many people have ever been bothered to work their way past his icy defences.

“How do you know Tōshirō?”

The captains faze back into the conversation and then glance at each other simultaneously, searching for the short straw. Apparently, Kyoraku is the one to draw it, for he gives a sigh befitting a bear arousing from hibernation and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“I think,” he begins slowly, giving Ichigo a considerate look. “The question is, really, how _you_ know Tōshirō Hitsugaya, but I suppose that can wait for now.”

_Wow_ , Ichigo thinks, fighting back his surprise. _This guy doesn’t waste time dancing around a topic_.

“Guard Hitsugaya used to be the third seat of the Tenth Division about… hmm… two decades ago now, I believe. Granted, Rangiku-san still considers him an honorary member, but officially, Hitsugaya-san was promoted to his position in the Royal Guard and so now works separately to the Gotei Thirteen. He was quite an effective third seat, as I recall, and with the beginnings of bankai under his belt, he had the potential to rise into the ranks of the captains if he had been given the chance.”

Ichigo frowns at the choice of wording. He doesn’t know if the captain is _intending_ to suggest that Tōshirō hadn’t had the freedom to choose to work for the Royal Guard (or _not_ work for them, more importantly), but Tōshirō _had_ said something similar in their last conversation, his words ringing with the same apathetic tone.

(“… _we are merely the Royal Guard to most, the elite chosen by the King_ …”)

“How do you become a Royal Guard?” he asks. “I mean – there’s a big gap between your captains and lieutenants, isn’t there? And you said that being a Guard is a _promotion_ , and he’s strong, so he must be higher than a captain, right? But Tōshirō was a third seat, so…”

Ukitake is beginning to look amused again, and even Kyoraku has a shine in his eyes. Ichigo wants to ask what they find so funny, but he fears it will be the usual surprise at the fact that he’s actually capable of _thinking_ , and decides it best not to ask.

“You’re right, it _is_ a big jump. Our officers are promoted to captain based on various reasons, although the chief requirement is usually bankai. However, captains must be adept at organising large groups of people both on and off the battlefield, and are responsible for the maintenance of the division’s structure and happiness of those within it. Captains are expected to be powerful, resourceful, and capable of working under pressure. There are other officers to help them, of course – lieutenants and lower seated officers like the third – but there is much more to power than merely victory in battle. Most of these skills come through experience, so captains are often lieutenants promoted within their division, as ranks lower than lieutenant do not offer the same experiences.”

Kyoraku stops there, seemingly pleased with the amount he has said despite it not truly answering Ichigo’s question. It certainly sounds like the answer _could_ be in that long-winded explanation (and Ichigo wonders if, in a roundabout way, it _is_ there in the words that Kyoraku is _not_ saying), but he does not press for clarification, realising that it must be something to ask Tōshirō directly.

Perhaps Kyoraku does not _know_ the answer, or not entirely. The Royal Guard seems to be somewhat of a taboo topic amongst the shinigami, or a well-secreted one at any least, so maybe only the Guards are aware of the fulfilments they met to be chosen. Maybe it is different for each individual. Or maybe it is something only the Soul King can know.

Instead of asking further, Ichigo crosses his arms and levels the captain’s cheery smirk with a glare. “You don’t like straight answers, do you? Man, you could give the prime minister a run for his money.”

The captains blink at him, the comment zipping straight over their heads.

“Who?” asks Ukitake.

“Err.” Ichigo scratches his cheek, fishing around for a definition they might understand. He supposes now that Rukia’s ignorance of the Human World had reflected the shortcomings of her society, rather than her nature. “Representatives of the government?”

“Ah. Politics,” Kyoraku says, nodding at Ichigo’s sigh of relief. “Yes, we know something about politics, don’t we Jūshirō?”

The friends share another look at Ichigo’s bedside – only this time, neither of them is smiling.

Ichigo glances between them and decides he doesn’t want to know.

 

 

 

After Captain Unohana officially discharges him later that day, Ichigo sets about ticking off the mental checklist he had created. _Find his friends_ is the task right at the top, and with the strict orders from the healer not to over-exert himself, Ichigo hits the streets with a stroll. Primarily, he has absolutely no idea about their location, but after asking around for _the gang of teenagers that almost kicked your arses_ (he words it slightly better than that), Ichigo eventually follows a set of mismatched directions to the Sixth Division. The guard at the gates announces that neither the captain nor lieutenant are present, which suits Ichigo just fine for now (not punching Byakuya is number three on his list). His friends are around somewhere though, and despite Ishida’s claims that he cannot distinguish a tree from an enemy with his dismal reiraku skills, Ichigo manages to pick up Chad’s steady presence without much difficulty.

The trail leads him to the guest quarters, where his friends have been given a rather large room to camp in. It seems they have elected for a blanket-fort with the amount of futons and pillows piled into the room, and Ichigo smiles as a cushion _thwumps_ into the wall beside his head.

“Christ, your aim is getting _worse_ , Ishida,” he laughs, and over the sound of Inoue’s chirpy chime and Chad’s greeting, Ichigo scoops up the cushion and pitches it across the room. It hurtles into Ishida’s indignant squawk of denial and then rolls innocently to the floor, but by that point the fight has already erupted, pillows and cushions hurling about.

Chad insists a truce once Ichigo’s yelps of pain sound too real, and though Ichigo feels thoroughly chagrined at his friends’ concern, he thinks the ache of his wounds is worth it to see them happy.

They keep an eye on him over the next few days, although they will never admit to fussing. Ichigo doesn’t mind, arguing that if he’s close enough for their watchful eyes, then they’re close enough for him to protect, and he’s not going to complain about that. He’s mostly sure that the Gotei Thirteen mean them no harm now, but some officers have taken Aizen’s desertion harder than most, and Ichigo would rather keep his friends away from fraying tempers than risk their anger.

The restoration of the Seireitei consumes most of their time, but it’s easy, laborious work, and it could be worse. When Ichigo’s not exploring the desolated streets or running supplies back and forth between construction sites with his bankai, he can often be found in the Eighth or Thirteenth Divisions with their respective captains. Kyoraku and Ukitake are happy to indulge his questions about the Soul Society; they’re pleasant company, always willing to pour him a cup of tea, and Ichigo is sure they could be friends right up until Kyoraku pushes him out of the door and laughs as a blur of strawberry-blonde _pounces_ on him.

“Found you!” the woman shrieks, ensnaring Ichigo in a snug, _squishy_ clasp of death. He squawks, suddenly terrified for his life or _worse_ , but dares not push away until he can _see_ where he’s putting his hands. There’s something familiar about the woman, but with his eyes blinded white by her haori and his face smooched against her _something_ , he is unable to discern where he may have encountered her bubbly exuberance before.

“Thank you, Captain Kyoraku!” she says, her grip a practiced fortress against unruly, squirming adolescents. “I’ve been looking for him _everywhere_.”

“You’re welcome, Rangiku-san,” says Kyoraku, waving a merry farewell. “Do take care of him.”

“What?” Ichigo blurts, helpless to control his fate as he’s swivelled around and marched away from the office. The sound of Ukitake’s laughter fades away with each forced step, but Kyoraku’s amusement continues ringing in Ichigo’s ears like a bell tolling death as he is dragged to some unknown destination of unknown intentions.

“Hey! Let me go! Where are we – who _are_ you? Would you _stop_ –?”

The kidnapper merely laughs, tugging Ichigo along.

He considers fleeing with a shunpo, but with her glare and her iron hold, broken bones are likely if he were to attempt something so stupid. Therefore, ten minutes later finds him sitting on a different sofa with a different cup of tea, and Tōshirō is at his side looking just as trapped as he.

“Got you too, did she?” asks the silver-haired shinigami, already halfway through drowning his frustrations in his own cup. Judging by the sheer size of the teapot on the table, it’s not Tōshirō’s first attempt, and it probably won’t be his last.

“Err,” says Ichigo.

Tōshirō rolls his eyes in the fond manner that Ichigo has learned to distinguish from his irritation. “It’s camomile and vanilla,” he says, sipping the drink as if to prove the lack of poison. His gaze over the rim is a storm brewing, vexation swallowed by mirth. “It won’t bite you.”

Dutifully, Ichigo tries to enjoy the tea. “ _She_ might,” he adds with a grumble, gaze darting about the mellow interior of the office as if the captain may reappear through the very walls themselves.

“She won’t,” Tōshirō assures, but then the devil herself comes skipping in with what appears to be a humungous stack of papers, and his expression of reassurance morphs into such horror that Ichigo sloshes tea all over his lap.

“ _Fuck_! Fuck, fuck – ow, that’s fucking hot –”

“Right!” the captain cuts in, slamming down the papers onto the table with enough force that the teapot wobbles in fear. She levels Tōshirō with a diamond-eyed glare, and he swiftly smothers the smile formed by Ichigo’s frantic jumping around. Then, looking just as fierce, she rounds on Ichigo with all of the fury of a woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it, and the substitute freezes mid-hop.

“You, ginger, you’re cute but sit down and shush because I’m only saying this once.”

Her finger waggle is particularly fearsome, so Ichigo obediently perches himself back onto the sofa. As she prepares herself for whatever tirade she has planned, Ichigo glances at Tōshirō from the corner of his eyes, hoping to convey a desperate _I thought you said she wouldn’t bite?_

The reply is a _you have no idea_ twitch of Tōshirō’s eyebrows.

“You have two choices," begins the captain, holding up two fingers. "You sit here and complete all of my paperwork _and_ the paperwork from the Fifth, or you got off your sorry arses and _talk to each other_. I know you’re both _men_ , but really, all this moping around is driving me _insane_. It was sweet at first, but you’ve drunk your weight in tea and I _swear_ , if Captain Shiba were here he would have already thrown you over his shoulder and _shaken_ this flunk out of you. But since he’s not here, I’m going to have to do it.”

She picks up the first two dozen sheets of paper and thrusts them under Tōshirō’s nose, but it is Ichigo who replies with a flabbergasted, “What?”

“Relax, they’re only financial reports,” Tōshirō says with a dispirited sigh.

The captain swats him over the head with the papers. “Tōshirō Hitsugaya you are _hopeless_. Where’s the boy that used to whinge about the paperwork and glare Captain Shiba into submission?”

Tōshirō’s glare definitely says _oh, he’s still here_ , and though the strawberry-haired woman brightens at the sight of it, she still seems capable of getting away with murder. Tōshirō’s murder, to be specific, and Ichigo contemplates fleeing for his life as the duo continues to bicker. They seem well attuned to each other’s attitudes, suggesting that they have known one another for many years, but even so, Ichigo feels like he’s intruding as he recalls what Ukitake and Kyoraku (the bastard) said in the Fourth.

_This must be the Tenth Division_ , he realises, risking a glance about the room. It’s a compact, neutrally coloured office, which contrasts the argument currently taking place. _This is where Tōshirō was a third seat. And that must be the ‘Captain Matsumoto’ that they mentioned._

“– well, he had a mouth that _needed_ a lock,” Matsumoto is saying, waving the rolled up paperwork around like a club. It skims past Tōshirō’s head occasionally, swishing through the fine strands of snow. “You, on the other hand, appear to have misplaced your _key_.”

Tōshirō does nothing but glower for a moment, and then seems to realise that he’s only proving her point. His expression one of the most hyperbolic infuriation that Ichigo has ever seen, he goes to interrupt the captain, only for Matsumoto to jab her weapon towards him, bopping him on the nose.

“Look,” she says, and like lightning’s arrival she is calm now, eyes of opal blue rolling in a strictly feminine exasperation. “I know you’re a genius, but even you need pointing in the right direction sometimes, Tōshirō-kun.”

She bops him on the nose again and then swings the papers around to point at Ichigo. The substitute squeaks, ninety-nine percent terrified of this woman, but he doesn’t appreciate her implications until Tōshirō turns towards him, looking as disgruntled as a chick ruffling its feathers.

Something incredibly important has occurred in this conversation, and Ichigo is undeniably clueless as to what.

“Could I have some more tea?” he asks, hoping to wiggle a sense of normality into the tense discussion happening over his head. He gives the empty cup a wave, indicating to the scorching spill still soaking into his clothes. The single mouthful of tea that he had managed had been nice, just as Tōshirō had assured, so maybe the currently grumbling shinigami is correct about Matsumoto’s non-lethal nature too.

The paperwork roll wavers just inches from Ichigo’s nose, and then drops harmlessly away.

“You’re clueless,” says the captain, her voice dropping at the end to give the words a mundane, _are you serious_ sort of tone. She sounds surprised, as if she and Tōshirō hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes arguing over this very fact, and Ichigo merely shrugs.

“Yep,” he replies, pouring himself another drink. In the minute of stunned silence that follows, he motions for Tōshirō’s cup and does the same.

“He’s clueless,” Matsumoto adds, this time talking to Tōshirō.

The wintry shinigami mutters his gratitude for the drink, blowing softly across the surface. “He is,” he says simply, seemingly forgetting that Ichigo is sitting right beside him. “But then I expect him to be.”

“Oh _thanks_ ,” Ichigo mumbles.

Tōshirō blushes, although it might just be the heat of the steam wafting up from his drink. “I mean – I don’t expect you to know about my plans because I haven’t told you them.”

“Oh,” says Ichigo. That makes sense, he supposes, and he wonders why Tōshirō hadn’t just said that in the first place.

“ _And_?” presses Matsumoto, flopping onto the other sofa and throwing the paperwork weapon away. Ichigo breathes a sigh of relief as it tumbles onto the floor, but Tōshirō’s sigh sounds more like annoyance; an age-old response to an equally familiar behaviour. Matsumoto seems not to notice, or if she does, she hides it well, and Ichigo can picture what Tōshirō’s life might have been like as the third seat under his woman.

Tōshirō shoots the captain a glare that only makes her click her tongue, a defence built up through the years. “I will be returning to Royal Palace in a few days to discuss a matter with one of my colleagues, Ōetsu Nimaiya,” he continues, speaking to Ichigo now. “I would ask that you come to the Royal Palace to speak with him regarding…”

Just for a moment, he pauses, his gaze flickering towards Matsumoto.

“…what we discussed after your battle with Captain Kuchiki.”

The voice.

“Oh,” Ichigo repeats, his excitement over the prospect of going to the _Royal Palace_ draining from his voice.

“ _But_?” Matsumoto adds before he can question the Guard’s insecurities over the strange hollow voice that he’d heard. (He didn’t tell Tōshirō that it controlled his body for a while, and maybe that’s for the best).

“ _But_ ,” says Tōshirō, stressing the captain’s impatience with his sarcasm. “I may have defied orders and displeased my commanding officer more than I let on, so I cannot predict a date in which to organise this.”

He sips his tea, seemingly oblivious to Ichigo’s exclamation of, “ _What_?”

“If at all,” Tōshirō finishes in a hushed tone, blatantly pretending not to be mumbling into his cup as the substitute’s reiatsu frazzles beside him, burning with a supernova of concern. “Stop gaping at me Kurosaki-san, you look ridiculous. I’m certain Nimaiya-dono will see you irrespective of my input.”

Ichigo’s mouth clacks shut, teeth grinding against teeth. Jaw twitching, he stares at his friend in bewilderment, feeling a fury on Tōshirō’s behalf clawing through his chest and rising up his throat like a fire, a dragon’s volcanic smog.

“That’s clearly _not_ the problem. I couldn’t give a _rat’s arse_ about this Nimaiya dude; this is about you getting involved with the Soul Society isn’t it?” he argues, shaking his head in tiny, jerking movements of stupor. Before him, Tōshirō’s expression is gradually shutting down, winter receding as the eruption of spring comes to burn it away, and Ichigo scowls as the great shinigami appears to shrink beneath the vastness of his kimono.

At Tōshirō’s brisk nod, Ichigo snaps, “That’s bullshit! You only got involved because _I_ decided that invading Soul Society was a good idea! Surely they can’t punish you for that? I thought your job was to keep me safe!”

“It is.”

“Well you did, didn’t you?”

Tōshirō’s scandalised look is akin to a lightning bolt crashing into the conversation. “You class nearly getting severed at the spine as _safe_?”

“Well I’m not dead so –”

“You could have been.”

He does not raise his voice, but he does not need to; Tōshirō is already thunder, and Ichigo hears the tempest in his words.

“Tōshirō…” The name is a breath through his lips, curved down into a frown. Ichigo sighs and scratches his cheek, hating that Tōshirō’s words still ring in his ears. “You know it’s not your fault, right? I chose to rescue Rukia, and I don’t regret that for a second. But, yeah, maybe we should have done things differently, but it’s over now, and it all worked out. I’m the idiot who did stupid things, not you –”

Tōshirō makes a sound that’s something between a laugh and the noise of a dying animal gurgling through gasps and gore, but instead of exploding like he seems he might (reiatsu is shivering about him, diamond-edged snowflakes brewing in a storm), he promptly pours himself another cup of tea.

“I went after Aizen. I fell into his trap. I made a mistake – and now there are consequences,” he explains quietly, the room around him seeming to freeze in the tremor of his power. The change in his demeanour is instantaneous; he is confident in his faults, sitting straighter with his backwards assurance. The tea warms his skin, but his hands shake against the cup, cracking ice into the smooth ceramic.

Ichigo feels a little helpless watching him. His knowledge of Aizen is limited – it’s certainly not enough to counter Tōshirō’s logic and calm his mind. The tea seems to be doing some good, so Ichigo slurps at his own, wondering which of theirs is colder and how else to reassure his friend.

He glances across the room for assistance, only to find that Matsumoto has gone. Ashy reiatsu has been left in her wake, trailing like dust from the sofa to the door. Ichigo didn’t hear her leave, but he is glad that she has, and glad that Tōshirō has found a friend in her no-nonsense, empathetic ways.

Still. That doesn’t help him with how best to approach the gloomy, tea-drinking raincloud of a dilemma before him.

“You know, my lack of self-preservation is good for one thing,” Ichigo begins slowly, hoping to draw Tōshirō out of his self-imposed wrongdoing. Maybe calling for Matsumoto is a good idea, but maybe he could solve the enigma of Tōshirō’s fears on his own.

The Guard pauses mid-reach for the teapot, raising one silvery eyebrow in question. His face is the January blues flattened into skin and frown and eyes, but he still manages a dry _go on, surprise me_ look from beneath his frosty exterior.

“I’ll pick fights with anybody – if you need me to,” Ichigo says, and he smiles and he hopes that, with his happiness, his steady gaze, and the unwavering burn of his reiatsu, Tōshirō will understand what he’s trying to say. It’s not a disagreement, or even an agreement, but rather it is a fact, a reassurance, and most importantly, a promise to do what is right.

The teapot scrapes against the table.

“Idiot,” Tōshirō breathes.

He goes to fetch more tea.

 

 

 

And now – the world begins to spin.

 

 

 

_Oh_ , two stars are set to combine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Toshiro and Rangiku's relationship is _weird_. The differences are subtle, yeah, but since Toshiro never became her captain they never had the dynamic change and it's just - she doesn't view him as a captain and it's bizarre.
> 
> Also: Guys. _Guys_. It's _dreadful_. I actually have a really, really rough (but existent) plan for the next 4-ish chapters. You hear that? A _plan_. What is the world coming to oh gods this fic was supposed to be short.
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go~


	5. Ichigo III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm not a solid planner (or a planner at all, really) I'm _estimating_ there to be about ten chapters. As we all know from the Soul Society invasion chapters, this is subject to change. Plot wise, we're prooooobably about halfway now, but we'll see :)
> 
> Thanks for your patience with this chapter (with special thanks to kiniyakkii for getting me through my plot crisis :3) This is the longest chapter yet at over 12k (my _god_ ) since my muse seriously doesn't know when to stop dammit.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

“Christ, what has Kon being _doing_?” Ichigo groans, kicking his bedroom door shut. Bare feet pad across the room, relishing in the springy comfort of the carpet, and though his eyes are blind to the furniture as he scrubs his hair with the towel, his footfalls navigate effortlessly to the wardrobe. Aches pulse invisible bruises into his skin despite the lull of the shower, but it is a pain that he has never previously experienced. It’s not exhaustion or overexertion, but rather, the peculiar sensation of gaining over a hundred pounds all at once and then being shoved inside a box that he’s slightly too big for.

His human body is _heavy_.

(Life, it seems, has a weight he has never appreciated before).

He dresses slowly, cursing his knees for their clicking and clacking. Kon clearly hadn’t invested in exercise or healthy eating while Ichigo had been away, but the substitute cannot find it in himself to be too mad. The responsibilities he had thrown upon the mod soul had been unfair, especially for such an extended period, so as long as Kon hadn’t entertained himself with anything _unsavoury_ , then Ichigo isn’t going to complain.

Well. He isn’t going to complain at _Kon_. His stupid-arse limbs, on the other hand, deserve to be the target of his profanity practice.

Once dressed, Ichigo gives his hair one last ruffle. Despite now looking like an unruly Labrador puppy that just jumped into a lake, he heads downstairs to find his family. His father has already greeted him with the madness that characterises his daily routine, and though Ichigo is glad that nothing seems amiss with their interactions (Kon has done _something_ right), he still needs to see his sisters. Ghosts and shinigami are entirely different matters, and although the girls are unaware of the latter, Ichigo wants to reassure himself that they are safe.

Rukia threw his life upside-down. Ichigo hopes that his sisters will never experience any adverse knock-on effects from his involvement with the Soul Society.

“Good morning onii-chan!” Yuzu calls, looking over from the table when Ichigo slides into the kitchen. Spread out before her is a collection of schoolwork, and she pauses her scribbling as he heads towards her, detouring from the fridge to pat her head.

“Heya Yuz,” he says, adding a quick kiss to her crown. His sister flusters briefly, smiling at the affection, and Ichigo feels a lump of tension unwind from his shoulders at her happiness. These past few weeks have been ordinary for her in every way, and Ichigo marvels at the evidence of Kon’s acting abilities.

(Guess he’ll have to thank the stupid lion).

“Got much planned today?” he asks, giving her classwork a swift once over in case she requests any help. Most assignments are easy enough for Yuzu, but Ichigo ensures that he is always around if need be.

As the conversation continues, normality drifting across the kitchen, Ichigo ponders breakfast. Wondering if real-world food will be just as ‘heavy’ as his body, he rummages around the cupboards for the jam to his toast, not hungry enough to cook something extensive. Karin wanders in just as he loses a fight with a milk carton and swipes it off him, grumbling about _useless brothers_ and _seriously, it’s plastic you dummy_. She is mercifully unaware that he beat a captain into the ground just days before, and she hands back the carton without so much as a second glance, also unaware of his ploy to encourage her over.

“Thanks Karin,” he says, trapping her in a hug before she can get away. She seems to be reaching the age where _sappy_ displays of affection are offensive, so Ichigo messes up her hair and kisses her cheek for good measure, laughing as she squirms away.

From the table, Yuzu whines at her twin’s behaviour, pouting dramatically for Ichigo’s sake.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Karin grumbles, but then she dutifully hugs her brother back before kicking him in the shin.

Ichigo counts that as a success.

There is just under a month left before the beginning of the next semester at school. Ichigo plans to sleep for most of it like a typical teenager according to his father, and he doesn’t bother arguing the claim since he has no way of justifying his decision without sounding ludicrous. When he’s not sleeping, slobbing around, or getting angry at video games for their terribly unrealistic combat mechanics, Ichigo is tackling the schoolwork that Kon hasn’t completed.

So – all of it.

Ichigo is amazed at how quickly he forgot how to solve calculus.

His friends are only a phone call away, and the mass of classwork they haven’t finished is a good a conversation starter as any, even if it is weird to be discussing something so mundane. Despite his insistence that _the next time we meet, we’re enemies Kurosaki_ (and seriously, what an idiot), Ishida participates in their frantic _help me I’ve forgotten everything_ meet-ups at Chad’s house (albeit grudgingly), and then even brings snacks for when the work is abandoned for movies.

Soul Society has brought them together and Ichigo vows to never lose these friends.

Beyond the occasional Hollow sighting, there is little activity from the other world. Souls still wander the streets, trailing the remnants of their lives in ethereal footsteps of wisp, but if there is a shinigami patrol guarding the town, then Ichigo has yet to encounter them. Nevertheless, the substitute shinigami badge that Ukitake bestowed upon him works wonders so Karakura is never unprotected, and that’s all Ichigo cares about at the end of the day.

August rolls on with the summer sun. September looms ever closer, bringing the darkness of autumn as the skylight fires burn away into the winter. Without Rukia to boss him about, Ichigo’s life is peaceful again, but as the days drag on and the new school semester arrives, he finds himself missing the unpredictability that the shinigami had brought. He does not miss the battles, the fear, and the adrenaline, but rather, he wonders if he had found himself in the Soul Society – if, with Zangetsu in hand and reiatsu blazing at his feet, he had been complete.

The warm nights lure him to the rooftops, cloaked in his dark impossibility and wearing it proudly. Zangetsu is quiet upon his back but Ichigo does not mind. Sometimes in his silence, he even spots Tōshirō’s hell butterflies in the moonlight, but they never flock close enough to question, and he never tries to chase them. Tōshirō returned to his home at the Soul King’s Palace, and Ichigo had promised to wait for further word before doing anything rash.

(He worries about Tōshirō, but he takes the butterflies as a good sign).

When the nights turn cold, he is drawn into the centre of his self, where a voice of hollow sickness rages on. Words are indistinguishable despite the deafening silence of his zanpakuto’s world; Ichigo calls for Zangetsu often, reaching for reassurance in the face of this screaming intruder, but only the empty, cackling voice answers. Zangetsu’s serene outlook is gone, and without it, Ichigo’s nights are plagued with fear and his days, growing shorter with the season, seem to persist out with an endless howl.

He does not know why Zangetsu refuses to talk – the blade still responds to his call in battle, but as soon as the opponent is slayed, Ichigo is only met with silence. Nothing has ever unnerved him to such an extent, not even losing his powers entirely. Then, at least, Zangetsu had been merely dormant while waiting for his other half to regain his strength, but now, Ichigo doesn’t know what his zanpakuto is waiting for.

If anything at all.

The voice is difficult to ignore. It feels like it threatens to consume him, a bog of misery and nightmares swallowing him whole or a predator in the dark, golden eyed and silver tongued. Ichigo knows little about it beyond Yoruichi’s contemplating gaze and Tōshirō’s obvious uncertainty, an apprehension in itself for such a bright mind, but he doesn’t want to know more. He just wants his dreams to be quiet again, his thoughts to be free of sinister laughter. He wants to be able to look in the mirror and see a shock of tangerine hair and the sharp features of his sixteen years, rather than a pale ghoul of a man, sick-skinned and hollow-eyed.

He’s on the edge, and there’s a monster wielding razors beneath his skin.

School begins for another semester at the worst possible time. Ichigo has perfected a brave façade for his family, but he doubts he can hold it in front of his friends. Mizuiro and Keigo seem not to notice that anything is amiss (but really, with Keigo’s personality that’s not exactly a surprise), and Ishida’s expression is almost as blue as his hair, so there must be something on his mind. Ichigo would ask, but Inoue seems happy enough to keep the quincy company, and Chad has scarcely let Ichigo out of his sight since the term began so there aren’t many opportunities to drag the quincy out of his flunk.

Ichigo hadn’t expected to hide anything from Chad.

He also hadn’t expected Tatsuki to notice how his shinigami badge wails obnoxiously from where it hangs from his bag. The charm he passes off as a trinket from his father, but there is no way of hiding the badge’s ridiculous notion of an alarm. The first bloodcurdling scream of **_HOLLOW HOLLOW HOLLOW!!_** almost makes him die of shock, and he is powerless to deter the yelp before it explodes from his throat and blasts through his teeth. The teacher shoots him a long-suffering look and asks after his wellbeing, but Ichigo has already blurted some excuse and fled the classroom.

Tatsuki is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the day. Ichigo doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, hoping that Inoue or somebody else will explain what he cannot.

This seems to be the default response to his life now.

 

 

 

And then Shinji Hirako transfers into their school.

 

 

 

Their blades clash, zanpakuto against zanpakuto. Roof tiles quake beneath the force of Ichigo’s reiatsu, a fire raging into the night. Flames of a youthful power untapped blister across the housetops, sparking like tiny lightning bolts in the shinigami’s shock. Ichigo skids away from his opponent, raising Zangetsu in defence. The newcomer doesn’t follow, and instead steps through the sky as if the fight bores him, despite initiating the exchange with nothing more than a hyena’s smile and the clack of a blade unsheathing with an unknown intent.

“Who are you?” Ichigo blurts, tracking the man’s movements across the sky. The stranger had appeared out of nowhere, his reiatsu concealed to a degree that Ichigo cannot sense despite their proximity, and though he wears the face of their new classmate, there is nothing about him that suggests the sixteen-year-old goofball that Ichigo had met that morning.

“Eh? Forgotten me already, Ichigo? I’m hurt,” replies the man, tipping his cap away from the obsessively straight cut of his fringe. Stepping closer with what can only be described as a _swagger_ , he looks offended for a moment, before a wild smile of teeth and tongue smothers his dramatics.

Ichigo grits his teeth at the casual use of his name and stands his ground, wary of Hirako’s identity but refusing to flee. “Are you a shinigami?”

Hirako’s resentment seems genuine this time, which is surprising given the fact that he appears to be wielding a zanpakuto. “ _Ahh_ , I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he singsongs, his smug smile alarmingly similar to Urahara’s. “Me? A _shinigami_?”

“You have a zanpakuto,” Ichigo points out, motioning briskly to the blade with Zangetsu.

“Do I?” Hirako coos. He stares at his sword as a child would stare at a pop-up toy, the novelty of the item captivating his attention. “Ooh, do you know what else I have?”

“A crap fashion sense?” Ichigo deadpans.

“ _Please_ ,” says Hirako, rolling his eyes. He lifts one hand, positioning it over his face as if intending to grab his hat but misjudging its size. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Ichigo bristles, interrupting the man before he can complete whatever weird motion he is making with his arm. “Well, there are your _shoes_ , and that _tie_ , and don’t forget that _hair_ –”

Hollow reiatsu gathers in Hirako’s grasp, churning with the murky emptiness of death until a white mass bulges from, a creature rising from a hellish bog. Fragments of bone snap into place across his face and monstrous teeth complete his smile, stretching from cheek to cheek, and Hirako laughs with a sickening triumph, sliding the mask away.

“You know what this is, don’t you Ichigo?” he asks, waving the mask before his eyes, a hypnotic pendulum merging the Hollow and shinigami together into a single blurred face of sinister eyes and a sinister smile.

Ichigo wants to say _no_ , but every fibre of his soul (the rain drumming down, a storm drowning him in truth) is screaming **_YES!_**

“We’re the same, you and I,” Hirako says, slinking forward. “We are the shinigami who have crossed into the realm of the Hollow. We are the _Visored_. You don’t belong with _them_.”

He laughs, and in Ichigo’s ears, a voice laughs with him, demonic and cold and shrieking from the depths of his being, a monster striking broken shackles against the iron bars of his cell. Gold blazes across his vision and fear scorches through his body; his lungs burn, breathless gasps heaving ashes into his throat. The nameless presence slams against his soul, screeching foul, wordless words as it reaches through Ichigo’s chest and crashes against his ribs –

 ** _LET ME OUT_**.

Another reiatsu descends upon them, its power a vengeful roar that deafens Ichigo to all but its distant blaze. Lieutenant-class at least, but unfamiliar as it pours over the night, a phoenix awakening from a thousand-year rebirth. Ichigo turns toward it, letting the energy wash over him. It is burns with a flame similar to Zangetsu’s, but its heat does not harm him as it stretches out to scour the town, wings spreading across the sky. The fire seems to scorch away all thoughts of Hirako, the Visored, and the voice, and for a moment, Ichigo can feel Zangetsu again.

He shunpos away in search for it, but by the time he reaches the battle, the source of the reiatsu has gone.

Hirako does not follow.

 

 

 

The next day spirals into chaos and all Ichigo wants is to be left alone. His friends understand that, giving him as much space as they can possibly can (which, it has to be noted, isn’t _that_ much given their protective streak), but nobody else seems to notice Ichigo’s _leave-me-the-hell-alone_ vibe.

Hirako is especially annoying, maintaining his act as the new goofball of the classroom throughout the day. He is _clingy_ in a way that makes Ichigo uncomfortable, but he recognises that his apprehension might be less to do with Hirako’s personality, fake as it is, and more of his insight into the Hollow mask that now seems to seep undyingly through Hirako’s smile.

Eventually, Ichigo fears that he won’t be able to turn the Visored’s offer down. Hirako is just as persistent as the voice in his head, screaming, reaching, and clawing for what it desires, and Ichigo feels helpless to break their resolve.

By the end of the school day, he is half-mad with the desperation to escape the suffocation looming down upon him. The last period is a blur against the ruckus in his head, algebraic formulas of disaster, and Ichigo flees the barrage of sounds and expectations the moment class is dismissed. Chad looks like he wants to stop him, but Ichigo is so _done_ with both the worlds of Hollow and shinigami that he doesn’t give his friend a second glance. He walks the streets home by himself, a bag full of responsibilities and time he doesn’t have slung over his shoulder, and his feet trekking the path of a shadow – his former triumph growing ever darker behind him as the sun moves across the sky.

Home is not a respite anymore. His family notice his odd behaviour the moment Ichigo walks through the door, but Isshin’s elbow _cracking_ into the side of his face is a helping clue. Yuzu shrieks, fusses, and demands for an apology from their blubbering father, but Ichigo couldn’t care less. They’ve always been rough with each other – he and his father – but if he turns up at school tomorrow with a black eye and a purple jaw, then nobody will so much as bat an eyelash. Ichigo’s reputation as a troublemaker will dismiss any concerns, and he has showed up for class with worse injuries before – broken bones and suffocating bruises from street fights and brawls, agonising reminders of failure blotched across his skin.

Even _Kon_ tiptoes around him, but by that point, Ichigo doesn’t want to ask. All he wants is the time to _think_ ; Hollow-less, shinigami-less, Visored-less, school-less, _people-less_ time to _think_ about Hirako’s offer and the strange reiatsu from last night and Zangetsu’s silence and the voice’s cackling and Tōshirō’s absence –

“Ichi-nii?”

A knock at the door, a muffled question, and Karin walks in with her mouth set firm. Ichigo tries to present himself with a fraction of his brotherly normality (he buries his frown beneath a smile and pushes a hand through his hair, shaking away dark thoughts), but his sister’s grim reaction exposes his futile efforts.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Karin asks, looking very small by the doorway. Uncertainty stays her feet and makes her frown, and Ichigo mirrors the expression, pained to think that such distance has grown between them. His sisters mean the world to him, and to see Karin so helpless in his presence is another twist of powerlessness constricting in his chest.

But – he doesn’t know what to say. How can he offer comfort when his dismay is stark across his face, evidence of a life that his sister is yet to understand? Would her denial of ghosts blind her to the true of the otherworld – blind her to the shinigami walking beside them, the shinigami sitting before her?

Ichigo cannot involve her in that world. Not now that there is discord approaching, a betrayal and a civil war looming overhead, so he lies, insisting that there isn’t anything wrong. He doubts she will believe him, but what else can he do?

Karin shakes her head, hands clenching at her sides. For a moment, she seems to vibrate with a fury that Ichigo has only ever seen in himself, but her expression is _sadness_ when she kicks the door shut, words bursting through her throat:

“I know you’re a shinigami! I saw you before! I saw –”

Despair _plummets_ into the space between them, filled only by the solemn shrieking of Ichigo’s shinigami badge as it wails from the bedside. **_HOLLOW HOLLOW HOLLOW!!_** bellows the impending danger, warning fear and pain and blood, but all Ichigo can hear is his sister, her mutter of his name louder than the screeching call to duty.

“Karin,” he breathes, unable to find the words to articulate his thoughts. A denial sits heavy on his tongue, waiting for be lifted into speech, but the threatening presence is curling around them both, a thick, lonely trail seeking the reiatsu that they share.

Ichigo swallows. “I –”

**_HOLLOW HOLLOW HOLLOW!!_ **

He glances at the badge, then at Karin’s terrified gaze. Her eyes plead against the truth as it _throws_ him across the bed, his hands grasping for the strength of shinigami powers.

 _Don’t leave_ , she is saying, even as he wrenches up the badge and presses it to his chest.

**_HOLLOW HOLLOW HOLLOW!!_ **

_Don’t go_.

**_HOLLOW HOLLOW HOLLOW!!_ **

He goes – and Yammy beats him into the ground.

In the second before Urahara and Yoruichi step in – as the Hollow’s gigantic arm plunges down to crush everything in its path – Ichigo is convinced he is going to die. Blood dribbles down his face and sticks his hair together, darkened clots of agony against the golden strands. The shihakushō of his bankai is shredded, revealing the gory wounds gained in his fear; his terror, a result of the voice’s twisted reach, trapping his body into a broken defence, a punch-bag waiting to be thrown around.

Chad has been torn apart, and Inoue is crumpled just feet away. Tatsuki, too, is victim to Ichigo’s faults, his late arrival and his fear, and Ichigo cares not for his own injuries when his friends are dying around him. Yoruichi fights the humungous Hollow effortlessly, kicking him around as if he is nothing in comparison – as Ichigo is _nothing_ in comparison to the force pressing down on him, screaming in his ear and choking up his lungs with horror. He is useless and he is weak, and all Ichigo can do as Urahara calls forth his zanpakuto to pick up the pieces of his mess is curl into himself, holding Zangetsu closer to his chest.

 _Please_ , he says to the zanpakuto, the soundless man somewhere in the depths of his soul. _What have I done? Why won’t you answer me anymore?_

And still the only voice to make a sound is of the Hollow, a terrible being shrieking hurling unexplainable words back at him:

 ** _I AM_** –

When the strange duo retreat back through a tear in the world, Ichigo does not lift his head. Yammy’s frustration rumbles out in bursts of profanities and roars, but it is Ulquiorra who poses the greater threat, the pallor of his empty face broken only by the tear-like marks slicing to his chin. He steps back into the anomalous opening and beckons Yammy towards him with an apathetic sigh; neither Urahara nor Yoruichi follow, and Ichigo stares at the ground, blinking blood from his eyes.

 _I will inform Aizen-sama that you are unworthy of his attention_ , Ulquiorra says to him, and though nothing about his tone could be described as a _sneer_ , his boredom suggests it, a drawled sigh of disappointment. The garganta folds itself shut, repairing the damage to the reality that Ichigo can hear crumbling about him, and in its wake is the Hollow’s parting words, ringing true in the silence.

 _You are trash_.

 

 

 

His friends insist that apologies aren’t necessary, but Ichigo apologises anyway. Their return to school is tense, Inoue’s cheery outlook unable to mask her winces of pain and Chad’s steadfast quiet a silence now, a great, dark, looming form of weakness in the corner of the classroom. Ichigo doesn’t mean to tiptoe around them, but he does with a shuffle, and eyes cast downwards to hide from the extent of their wounds. The only blessing is that Tatsuki appears to have forgotten the event – a result of the trauma, no doubt, of almost having her soul ripped away – but there is wariness about her now that she cannot explain, an animalistic instinct that twitches at sudden movements and tracks Ichigo’s boldfaced lie across the room.

Ishida doesn’t turn up for class. Ichigo has a feeling that the quincy has his own battles to face and decides not to press – not, that is, he would never know where to start with his questions. Ishida’s home is on the other side of town and Ichigo has never been there, but he doubts he will be welcome. Their relationship has grown into something that _should_ be described as friendship, but the quincy has never used the word and Ichigo isn’t going to force it out of him. If Ishida wants to talk about whatever he has going on then he will, but Ichigo can understand if he doesn’t want to admit to the loss of his quincy powers.

It’s not as if _he’s_ talking about his Hollow after all.

He returns his attention to the doodle taking shape in his notepad. About him, the class chatters on in preparation for the day, and people trickle in and out as the first period approaches. Chad is gravely silent behind him, and beside him, Inoue and Chizuru continue to squeal, the latter fussing over the range of Inoue’s injuries. The _falling-down-the-stairs_ lie seems to have succeeded, and Ichigo shakes his head at the absurdity of it all.

Their friends are _ignorant_. Human beings are _ignorant_.

Ichigo almost wishes he were the same. Rukia would likely punch him if she heard him say such things, and Ichigo draws a little smiley face next to his indiscernible scribble despite himself. He will never regret storming through the Soul Society for her sake, and he is glad to have met such a diverse, unbelievable group of people in the otherworld. New friendships and new opportunities are things he will never pass by, but Ichigo wonders if there were experiences that he could have changed – if he had been stronger, smarter, and more prepared then maybe Zangetsu would still be talking to him, and maybe the Hollow would never have festered in his soul. Maybe his friends would be unharmed, and maybe his sister would still be blissfully oblivious.

And maybe Tōshirō would still be around.

Ichigo knows that the hell butterflies are gone – days have passed since he last saw their wobbling shadows over the sky – but he scans the courtyard beneath the window just in case, as if the mere thought of his elusive friend will bring him near. Yet, there is only the morning quiet across the grounds, the last panicked students rushing into the school, and Ichigo sighs in disappointment, cursing himself for expecting something impossible.

He rips the ruined page from the notepad and scrunches it into a ball. The bin is on the other side of the classroom, so he cuts through the merry chatter with the screeching of his chair against the floor, and plods over with heavy footfalls and grumbles. His point-blank throw misses the bin, and if exemplifying his irritated curse of _you-have-to-be-joking_ , the classroom door promptly explodes and five bickering voices blast into the room.

The loudest voice cries his name, and Ichigo turns just in time to be squished into a hug of laughter and squabbling and _curves_ , and he just about swallows his tongue when he recognises Matsumoto’s overly friendly greeting.

(A student across the room squawks).

“Yo, Ichigo! How’s it going?” Renji calls from the doorway, the entrance of the five shinigami smothering all other sounds within the room. The lieutenant strides over to tap the captain’s shoulder, his eye roll prompting the squealing woman to let her captive go.

Freed, Ichigo wiggles away and almost trips over the bin in his haste. “Renji! Matsumoto-san!” he blurts, taking in the sight of his shinigami friends wearing the Karakura High’s uniform. “ _Eh_ –? Ikkaku? Yumichika? What are you guys doing here?”

He stares between the four familiar shinigami, hoping one of them will answer. The last member of the group is unknown to Ichigo – it is a girl perhaps Rukia’s height, and unlike her four companions she is holding herself quite tidily, a small and meek thing waiting by the door with a bun in her hair and a fringe over her eyes. She does not answer the question, aware that it isn’t directed at her, but she smiles when Ichigo’s confused gaze settles upon her and bows very slightly in greeting.

Ichigo returns the gesture, wondering how someone so pleasant has come to involve herself in this group of hooligans.

“We’re here to prepare for further confrontations with the Arrancar, of course,” Renji cuts in with his grumbling tone, clapping Ichigo on the back.

“Eh?” the teenager replies, the strange phrase momentarily distracting him from the girl’s identity. “What’s an Arrancar?”

Renji shots him a flat look and Ichigo bristles, feeling stupid for asking when the redhead blurts: “What the hell’d you mean, _what’s an Arrancar_? They just kicked your arse, dimwit, and you didn’t even know what they were?”

“Hey!” Ichigo snaps, rising up to defend himself ( _nobody tells me anything, so how am I supposed to know what an Arrancar is?_ ) but Rukia takes that moment to fly into the room and mash his face into the sole of her shoe.

Despite the crack of his nose, the splatter of blood, and the shrieks of his classmates when Rukia rips Ichigo from his body and hurtles him through the window, the yelling encounter is more shocking than painful. Nobody offers Ichigo any protection from Rukia’s tirade, and while there is a second when he wants nothing more than to _fight back_ , to insist that he’s strong and deny her accusations of cowardice (she has no idea – absolutely _no idea_ what he’s going through right now!) when his shinigami powers cloak him for the first time since the Arrancar confrontation, there is a smile on his face that he cannot suppress.

She is behaving exactly as he expected her to – and if nothing else, Ichigo is glad for this one constancy in his life.

 

 

 

Rukia demands that he become stronger.

(Like he needed her to tell him that).

 

 

 

The shinigami pile into his bedroom after class. Rukia reclaims her cupboard without any prompting or permission, and the quiet girl whose name Ichigo has already forgotten is extremely polite about the intrusion upon his home, but the other four sniff around like fish-out-of-water with no common sense or comprehension of the Human World’s social norms. Ichigo isn’t surprised about the latter, but the former is probably going to induce a series of awkward questions from his family at dinner, and he doesn’t want to deal with that. Miraculously, Renji seems the most comfortable in the material world, and Ichigo imagines that Ikkaku’s obsession with his wooden sword, Yumichika’s unsubtle peacock affiliation, and Matsumoto’s general _everything_ is going to turn some heads over the next few days.

The whole thing is _bizarre_ , but he lets them squeeze into his room without many complaints. Kon isn’t impressed about being subject to their curious hounding, and Ichigo can hear his family muttering their puzzlement beyond the door, but for the most part, the evening passes without a hitch. The revelation of the Aizen’s strength threatens to change this, but none of the shinigami seem too concerned by the potential eradication of the Soul Society. Matsumoto, especially, is handling the responsibilities of her task force with her usual bubbliness. Ichigo wonders if the cheeriness is just a front, but since he does not intend to ruin the relaxed atmosphere with his concerns, he holds his tongue while the banter continues about him.

When _dinner_ becomes the main topic of conversation, Ichigo has to put his foot down.

“There’s not enough room for you here,” he presses, and although he feels a little bit bad at kicking them out, eventually his friends begin to part ways for the night. Rukia stays – of course she does – but when Matsumoto stops the quiet girl from leaving and asks Ichigo for a moment, the Thirteen Division officer disappears to reunite with the Kurosaki family.

“Ichigo-san,” the captain begins, her jubilance slipping away like the sound of Rukia’s footsteps padding down the hall. She doesn’t quite smile as the substitute sits back down, but there is warmth to her expression, evidence of a slow-burning friendship that will never extinguish.

Ichigo shrugs before the captain can continue, certain about where this conversation will lead. “I haven’t heard from him,” he says, scratching his cheek. “I take it you haven’t either?”

Matsumoto’s huff is a dramatic display of disappointment, and with a pout worthy of her puppy-dog-eyes expression, she turns to the girl beside her and says, “Why is he so stupid?”

The girl’s smile is a flutter of amusement across the dip of concern on her face. “He’ll be fine, Rangiku-san,” she says, not quite sounding like she believes it. “He was always so stubborn – and he doesn’t break his promises.”

Despite grumbling further, the captain seems appeased by this reassurance. Ichigo glances from her to the meek girl, wondering if he has missed something vital again. Matsumoto’s concern over Tōshirō he can understand – and her annoyance at the silence, since Ichigo shares the sentiment – but the way she falls back on her companion’s opinion is odd. Is this girl closer to Tōshirō than his former lieutenant is?

Ichigo wracks his brain for her name – Renji _had_ told him, but it has already slipped his mind. Names and faces encode badly in Ichigo’s mind; he could just bestow a nickname upon her as he almost had for Tōshirō, but she doesn’t seem the type to respond to something so casual.

“I just wish he wasn’t always so _vague_ about everything,” Matsumoto complains, oblivious to the whirr of his thoughts. “I understand that he can’t talk about the Royal Guard in great detail, but I just…”

She gestures so violently that she appears to strangle the air.

“I know,” agrees the other girl, nodding along with the captain. Ichigo’s almost certain her name began with ‘H’, but it might have been ‘M’, or maybe even a ‘T’… _Himeko_ takes shape on his tongue, as do _Hinako_ and _Hiro_ , but they all fall short by a syllable or two, gathering unknowingness behind his teeth.

“He’s infuriating!” Matsumoto goes on, pouting again. “I thought he would have grown out of that. I wish he would just talk to us instead of disappearing as he does. We can _help_ him –”

“Give him time, Rangiku-san,” says the girl – Hiyumi? Himawari? “He’s always worked at his own pace. He wouldn’t be Shiro-chan if he didn’t.”

“ _Shiro-chan_?” Ichigo blurts, unable to help himself at the nickname. Tōshirō had been apparent in his dislike when the substitute had suggested such a form of address, so to hear it from the unfamiliar girl speaks _volumes_ about their relationship. The silvery shinigami is either reluctant to share the nickname with a stranger for its sentimental value, _or_ his relationship with this girl is enough to let the derogative name slide.

Ichigo can’t imagine Tōshirō being the type to hold _Shiro-chan_ in high regard, so it has to be the latter.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” squeaks the girl, misinterpreting his surprise as confusion. She jerks as if reaching towards him, attempting to comfort or reassure in a manner so startlingly _vulnerable_ that Ichigo almost apologises back. “Tōshirō-kun, I mean – um, that is, Guard Hitsugaya? _Oh_ – I should probably be more respectful…”

“Don’t be silly, Momo-chan,” Matsumoto says, and as her laughter distracts from the awkward fumbling of her companions, the back of Ichigo’s mind roars _her name is_ _Momo Hinamori you dolt!_ in a voice that sounds remarkably like the captain’s. “He doesn’t _really_ care about all that stuff. You’re his _family_. And, hey, Ichigo-san calls him by his _first name_.”

“Really?” Hinamori replies, blinking outrageously innocent eyes at her friend.

Ichigo feels the need to defend Tōshirō against the onslaught of womanly logic by explaining that introducing himself as _Guard Hitsugaya_ would have given Tōshirō’s situation away, but the women ignore his attempts. Hinamori flutters in relief at Matsumoto’s insistence, and Ichigo doesn’t have the heart to argue when the atmosphere returns to its previous cheer. He sighs, shooting a silent apology to wherever Tōshirō currently is, and promptly forgets all about supporting his friend’s decision when the two shinigami turn to him with a terrifying intuition known only to women.

“Err,” he mumbles, daring to ask. “What?”

Neither woman says anything for a while, instead communication through means unfathomable to Ichigo’s masculine intellect. It is an exchange he has witnessed many times before – Tatsuki’s intuition is especially frightening – and he curses himself for the type of friends that he seems to attract.

(Why is everybody he knows equally weird and terrifying?)

Eventually, Matsumoto and Hinamori seem to come to an agreement, and Ichigo can only fear for his health when their contemplative stares acquire a diamond-edged glint; predators in their own right, the innocent lioness calculating her success.

“Shiro-chan takes his role as your guard seriously, doesn’t he?” Hinamori asks him, seeming to pull the unrelated question from thin air.

“Um,” Ichigo says, momentarily thrown by the declaration of his relationship with Tōshirō. How much do Matsumoto and Hinamori know? How much has Tōshirō confided in them?

He shrugs, unable to say much more. “I guess so?”

For some reason, that makes Hinamori smile. “I’m glad,” she says, the girlish curves and rounds of her merriment returning to replace her previous apprehensions. There is something contradictory about her, young and old melded together into an experience of inexperience, sorrow and joy tumbling about into an expression that Ichigo has only ever seen on one other person before, and it saddens him to witness it take form upon her face. She seems lonely despite her abundance of friends, and Ichigo can only guess as to what dark thoughts she buries deep within her soul.

He wonders, then, if they are thoughts she shares with Tōshirō.

And he realises, then, that perhaps her familiarity with Tōshirō isn’t so surprising after all.

Yet, before Ichigo can question Hinamori’s quiet conclusion any further, his substitute badge _wails_ from the bedside and the door slams open as Rukia throws herself into the room. Before the cry of _Espada!_ has articulated in the silence of the room, she has hurled Ichigo from his human body and out of the window, launching him into the bloodthirsty night. Orders are exchanged between the three women, strategies and tactics zipping over Ichigo’s head. In the distance, Renji’s reiatsu spikes from Urahara’s shop, and Yumichika’s and Ikkaku’s follow suit, pinpointing their defence of the town.

The Arrancar diverge for their hunt, and the shinigami match them blade for blade.

 

 

 

Afterwards, when the battles are won and the battles are lost, they gather atop Inoue’s apartment block for medical treatment. Rukia and Ikkaku are hurt the worst and receive immediate attention from Inoue’s god-saving ability, although it should be noted that Ikkaku wears an expression of pure euphoria when he flops down before her, clearly pleased with the outcome of his battle, whereas Rukia isn’t in a state to be doing much of anything, really. Yumichika’s unperturbed attitude towards his companion’s adrenalised enthusiasm suggests this is common for the Eleventh Division – in fact, he is the only combatant to walk away entirely unscathed, and Ichigo does wonder if he even unsheathed his blade. Yet, both men are alive and cognisant enough to relay what happened, so the mechanics of their fight matters not.

Nobody else is injured to the same degree. Renji looks like his opponent had knocked him around a bit, and Matsumoto seems to be trailing a thick smog of ash wherever she goes, but it is Hinamori who holds herself with pain, her healing kido highlighting the scorching ends of her shihakushō. Beyond the flashes of burn, she doesn’t appear harmed, but Ichigo cannot shake his unease as the girl melds Renji’s shoulder back together.

If her quivering lip and tired eyes are anything to go by, she looks like a puppy that someone attempted to drown.

“Oi, Chad,” Ichigo says, drawing his sentinel friend aside. Di Roy had almost killed the gentle giant of a teen, but it was the blue haired predator that had inflicted the most damage. Chad had refused to back down once the Espada had appeared, and though the wounds he received for his unwavering loyalty are fierce, Ichigo knows that his friend does not regret standing at his side.

The battle with Ulquiorra and Yammy has shaken them, but together they have fallen, rather than further apart. Ichigo has the best friends he could ever ask for, and he is relieved that they have put up with his efforts of pushing them apart.

He is glad that they have forgiven him for attempting it in the first place.

“You ever met the dark haired girl before?” Ichigo goes on, lowering his voice to a mutter as Chad leans close, beckoned by the call. The substitute shinigami is unsurprised by the negative response, but he goes on despite this. “ _Ehh_ , well – I was just, you know –”

He shrugs, wondering if he sounds silly. He might be overthinking things, but Hinamori is Tōshirō’s sister, and that’s reason enough to voice any concern. Ichigo remembers how _lonely_ Tōshirō had been when they first met, and if he can do something to help the few people that the Guard considers family, then Ichigo is going to do everything in his power to do so.

“She is sad,” Chad says, declaring his observation as fact, as if there is nothing else it could be. “She has lost something.”

“Lost something?” Ichigo echoes, turning back to watch the shinigami as she berates Renji for his injuries. ( _Berates_ is a strong term, but Hinamori is currently using a pout with wicked success upon the lieutenant).

Chad hums and ducks so that his fringe hides the sharp angles of his face, saying no more. Across the rooftop, Matsumoto continues to prowl about the other officers, ensuring herself of their wellbeing like ferocious cat rounding up her cubs. She gathers laughter and grins of triumph as she weaves between them, and her protective nature amused Ichigo until the captain turns to the only two people left to report.

Him and Chad.

Ichigo’s _oh shit_ expression makes the captain crack a smile, but it is not enough to deter Matsumoto from her goal.

“You fought the Espada?” she asks without any of her usual flamboyance, cutting directly to the point as the two teenagers squirm at the reminder of their unsuccessful battle. (Ichigo would insist that he _isn’t_ squirming, but for one terrible second he _does_ want to use his best friend as a shield. Espada and Hollow are one thing – women are another).

“Err,” says Ichigo, the breathless sound quickly becoming the automatic response to his new band of friends. He shares a look with Chad, amused to see that the gentle teenager is just as wordless as he is. The memory of the blue haired arsehole shoving his arm through Rukia’s stomach is an unsettling one, and Ichigo would rather not dwell on how his chest had seemed to explode in tandem at the ghastly sight.

“He introduced himself as Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez,” Chad says, clarifying the ginger’s lacking reply. “He had a six tattoo and a Hollow hole. He was powerful – I believe it was fortunate that the battle was interrupted by another man.”

Ichigo grumbles at Chad’s flat announcement, but cannot deny what his friend is saying. With Rukia’s condition, their lack of preparation, and his wavering control over the Hollow voice inside of his head, the fight with Grimmjow could have ended far worse than it did. It could have been Ulquiorra all over again, and Ichigo scowls at this thought, hating the twist of failure in his gut.

“Describe him to me,” demands the captain.

“Weird glasses,” says Ichigo, trying to recall what he could remember of the brief confrontation. Matsumoto sighs, but he goes on despite realising that she has somehow identified the man just from that. “He had braids in his hair and an orange scarf.”

“Kaname Tōsen,” she says, nodding. Her mouth dips sadly as if the news has disappointed her – as if she had been hoping for someone else. “He’s the ex-captain of the Ninth. I thought I felt his reiatsu…”

“Oh,” blurts Ichigo, his realisation cutting across whatever else the captain is about to say. “He’s the one that Komamura dude was shouting at.”

Matsumoto cringes. Ichigo wonders if he had been a little tactless, but before he can open his mouth to mumble through an apology, it occurs to him why Tōsen’s identity may have a greater significance than the rest of Aizen’s army:

“Wait – was he Hinamori’s captain? Was she his lieutenant or something? Is that why she’s…?” He waves in Hinamori’s general direction, as if the gesture is an ample method of summarising her mental state.

“No,” says Matsumoto sharply, obliterating that idea. She is staring at him now as if she cannot believe what she is hearing, and Ichigo feels the need to defend his thought process. Granted, the captain wasn’t included in his discussion with Chad so the topic change does probably seem abrupt, but Ichigo _knows_ that Matsumoto is just as worried about Hinamori as they are.

 “Tōshirō-kun’s right, you know,” the strawberry-blonde says then, her voice dropping in volume as she plonks herself down beside the teenagers. “You _are_ more perceptive than you seem.”

“Huh?” Ichigo replies, clearly exemplifying this very fact. He doesn’t think he imagines Chad’s huff of amusement.

“Momo-chan’s the lieutenant of the _Fifth_ Division,” Matsumoto explains quietly, gesturing to where Hinamori is now assisting Inoue with Rukia’s recovery. “You can tell by the insignia on her armband.”

In fact, Ichigo hadn’t noticed anything about an armband, but he dutifully follows the motion of Matsumoto’s hand to spy the emblem attached to the girl’s left arm. Etched upon it quite clearly is the number and flower for the Fifth Division – Aizen’s division – and everything that this signifies.

Her lost expression makes sense now.

“That’s rough,” he says, unable to find the words to embody the vile churning in his gut. “That’s really rough.”

Nothing is said for a long, cold moment of the night howling above them. Inoue’s powers are a hearth glowing at the centre of their group, a makeshift circle of wounded soldiers strengthening with their resolve. The amber light warms their weary faces, encouraging them to fight for another day. Ichigo searches for Hinamori’s melancholy amongst the group and watches how Inoue’s light refracts around it, her godly ability unable to heal the heart.

For the first time, Ichigo understands the extent of Aizen’s betrayal.

“Ichigo-san,” Matsumoto calls, articulating her thoughts slowly, seriously, with the care of a friend unsure how to help. “I understand that you have a lot going on right now; I know that you’re busy with your school work, your family, and the matter in which Tōshirō-kun is investigating, but… I think you could help her.”

There is no questioning to whom she is referring.

Chad makes an affirmative noise on Ichigo’s other side, prompting the substitute to stare between them both at this sudden gang-up against him.

“Me?” he echoes, doubting the captain’s logic with an exaggerated eyebrow raise. “I mean – I _can_ – but why me? Surely someone she knows better…?”

Matsumoto smiles. It’s not quite a smirk but it shines with the craftiness that defines her. “You could help each other. Momo-chan’s amazing at kido, you know. And a little birdy told me that you’re not. She could teach you, and I know she’d appreciate the company.”

It sounds like a win-win situation, and Ichigo is sure that Hinamori would appreciate it, but all he can think about is his midget _weasel_ of a friend having a laugh at his expense. “ _Rukia_ ,” he snarls, vowing to give the girl a piece of his mind once she’s well. _Rubbish at kido?_ Hah! At least he doesn’t turn everything into drawings of questionably sane _rabbits_!

“No,” replies the captain, rolling her eyes at his ferocious expression. “The _I’m-actually-a-dragon-and-I-hoard-paperwork_ one.”

Tōshirō.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

Matsumoto laughs and ruffles his hair, her enthusiasm shaking his head so violently that his scowl seems to somersault from his face. “Think about it,” she says, drawing the conversation to a close as Inoue’s powers dim across the rooftop, signalling the end of Rukia’s treatment. “Talk to Momo. I’m sure you could agree to something.”

Swatting the woman away, Ichigo offers a shrug. “If you think it’ll help,” he says, willing to help but unsure on how to approach the quiet lieutenant. Somehow, he rather imagines that sparring until he’s beaten Hinamori out of her flunk isn’t a good idea.

Matsumoto stands, brushing down the length of her haori. Her zanpakuto clatters against her back as she moves, but the ashy trail of reiatsu has calmed now, a volcano boiling away for a future eruption.

“It will,” she says, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. “It’s better than sitting around doing nothing, isn’t it?”

 _It’s better than being helpless_ , is what Ichigo hears, and he nods to the captain’s back, heaving a sigh.

Maybe it’s time to face his problems head on.

 

 

 

The troubles of September wither into October.

 

 

 

Winter approaches.

 

 

 

To Ichigo’s surprise, Hinamori doesn’t need much coaxing to aid his attempts at kidō. His inability to ask for help prompts him to manifest his persuasion in a roundabout manner, and although this involves ignoring Rukia’s incredulity as he settles into position for the shakkahō spell, it results in an effective demonstration of his uselessness as the scarlet orb explodes reiatsu and fire into his face. At Ichigo’s spluttering and swearing, the mousy Fifth Division lieutenant abandons her zanjutsu practice and rushes over, swatting away the smoke to inspect the damage of his hands.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ichigo insists over the roar of Rukia’s laughter. He waves his reddened, blistered hands to soothe the lieutenant, but Hinamori is adamant with her healing kidō. The rate at which her kaidō fixes his injuries is a feat that Ichigo marvels at (guess she _is_ good at kidō), and in seconds his skin is as good as new, painless and burn-free.

It seems like the perfect opportunity to follow up with an innocent _hey, you’re good at this, maybe you should teach me!_ but Hinamori’s glare frightens the rest of Ichigo’s words into a coiled, whimpering submission in his throat.

“Shakkahō is a mid-level spell!” she snaps, her sweat-streaked hair frazzling in disbelief. “You should have a precise control over your reiatsu before you attempt it without an incantation!”

“It has an incantation?” Ichigo says weakly, wishing that Matsumoto had mentioned just how terrifying this little firecracker of a kid could be. It _has_ to be a family thing, and Ichigo would laugh at Hinamori’s resemblance to Tōshirō if he weren’t currently doubt the sanity of his life choices.

“Yes,” says the lieutenant.

“Oh,” says Ichigo. “Do kidō spells normally have one?”

It’s not what he had planned to say to convince her to teach him, but it works just the same.

Their developing friendship hits its share of bumps. These mostly occur during training when Ichigo’s kidō goes haywire and he has to pretend not to see Hinamori hide her incredulous expression. Hinamori has the patience of a saint, and she hardly reacts when he singes off his eyebrows and almost sets hers alight for the _nth_ time, but even she has a limit. Ichigo is sure he finds it when he digs too deep into his reiryoku and the shrine they’re training near combusts into an inferno of disbelief and disappointment, but apart from forcing him to watch the fire brigade rush over to recuse the flaming shrine as a deterrent from repeating his mistake, Hinamori keeps her temper in check. Like Tōshirō, she has an astounding control over her anger, and it pains Ichigo to see that she is unable to reign in her sadness to the same effect.

Sometimes – in the heat of his shakkahō and the glow of his byakurai – she looks like she wants to cry. Ichigo doesn’t know if she ever does – if Matsumoto and Inoue offer her a closer kind of comfort when she returns home, exhausted and weary and in need of a hug – but he dares not ask. Hinamori never offers insight into her mind, and in return, neither does Ichigo, but they are content with each other’s company and the distraction that it brings.

(His dismal kidō skills are a superb distraction).

And then Ichigo’s Hollow claws its way into the waking world.

He hasn’t forgotten about it – how can he when it screams in his dreams and cackles in his nightmares, a voice of damnation writhing like an animal instinct embodied into sickness and disease? Zangetsu is still unresponsive when Ichigo searches, calling every day only to hear the Hollow screeching back. That’s the worst part – the part he wishes to change the most. Hirako’s prowling, the Hollow’s yelling, and his friends’ concern he can deal with, but Zangetsu’s silence threatens to consume him. Sometimes Ichigo rages within their world, as if smashing windows and cursing at the sky will give him the answers he needs. He always leaves lonelier than he entered, although there are times when he feels a presence in the shadows of their soul, demon-eyed and demon-tongued. Ichigo doesn’t know how the Hollow sustains itself, but when he wakes from his inner world wondering if it is truly _him_ that the Hollow is devouring, he decides he doesn’t want to know.

Asking the Visored for help is his last resort. Leaving his friends, family, and responsibilities behind to join them is the last thing Ichigo wants, so he ignores Hirako’s persistence and vows to deal with things without them. Ichigo is certainly not alone anymore – not as the Visored suggested. Although his friends vary in their knowledge of the Hollow, the fact that they are standing by him is enough. They may not understand or know what to say, but their presence is a comfort, and often that’s all Ichigo needs to remind himself of what he’s fighting for.

As October labours on, the nightmares worsen. When he starts to terrify his sisters with his midnight screaming and two am howling into the night, Ichigo takes to sleeping at Chad’s apartment. Leaving Rukia in his cupboard feels weird at first, but she’s always there to delay his family if he is late returning, blurting her polite excuses as Ichigo slides back in through the dawn window. Hiding from his family feels even worse, but the Hollow being in his soul is violent, and Ichigo cannot risk his sisters’ safety when he doesn’t know how the Hollow will react.

For the most part, the creature is quiet, a sinister thought at the back of his mind. During battle, it aches for freedom, to rip and tear and kill, but Ichigo refuses to submit to its desires. Once, after a particularly narrow escape from a fight, Ichigo allows the Hollow’s rage to _blitz_ across the edge of his zanpakuto, a gigantic Getsuga Tensho scorching in his hands, and then releases the energy as a thunderous shriek up into the sky. When he has calmed, and only then, does he run his fingers along Zangetsu’s spectral edge and mutter:

 _Tōshirō always says that there are other ways of solving problems than fighting, you know_.

(In the eerie, blessed silence that follows his words, Ichigo cannot be sure if he imagines the grumbled **_BULLSHIT_** or not).

After that, the Hollow’s anger seems to muffle. It is still present, the sensation of a serpent slithering beneath his skin, but for a few blissful days, Ichigo can hear himself _think_. It’s liberating – the lack of fear is _liberating_ – so much so that his next training session with Hinamori is a _breeze_ right up until she catches him with a high-levelled bakudō combination (she combines kidō as if it is as easy as _breathing_ ) and his flicker of panic _erupts_ , bone-white fear clogging up his throat and pouring from his mouth. A mask of hollow intentions swallows his face; he chokes on his tongue, gagging on a yell of shock and the cackle slipping through his razor teeth. He screams the last of his air and plunges his fingers into the mask, shredding its sticky contortion before it can solidify into the face that he fears to wear. It fights him, bites him, and shrieks at him from his own throat, but Ichigo stands his ground and rips the mask away, blasting it with a byakurai for good measure.

The lightning flare _crackles_ up his arm, white light fizzling around him. When he can see through the specks of light and the golden hue of the Hollow, the empty being has retreated, and Ichigo wipes a hand across his face to check that he’s still made of skin.

“…Kurosaki-san?” Hinamori says, her voice the tremble of reality threatening to cave about him. “Are you okay?”

“Bloody _hell_ ,” is Ichigo’s response as he flops onto the grass, Zangetsu teetering to the ground beside him. Sweat dribbles down his neck and his heart pounds inside of his chest, but the Hollow’s touch is receding and Ichigo can feel the world righting itself around him, the panic soothing as the fractures of his soul clamber back together.

He inhales a deep breath – then exhales.

Hinamori is knelt opposite him when he comes back to himself, her hands worrying the end of her shihakushō. She is pale despite the lingering glow of the lightning, but not once has she reached for her zanpakuto since the Hollow’s interruption, and Ichigo can’t tell if that makes her very brave or very, very stupid.

“That was an impressive byakurai,” she says.

It’s such an inappropriate response to the freakish shinigami-human-hollow-whatever hybrid that he is that all Ichigo can think to say is, “You’re nuts.”

Hinamori smiles with her eyes for the first time in _weeks_ , and though Ichigo cannot explain why, at her strange, contradicting, _wounded_ behaviour (because she _is_ wounded – Aizen has torn open her chest with lies and manipulations and now nobody knows how to put it back together again), the truth just comes tumbling out.

They talk for over an hour, sitting there in the park with the world rushing by.

Ichigo tells her about the Hollow, about his nightmares and Zangetsu’s silence, and he tells her about Shinji Hirako and the Visored, their hybridisation and Kisuke Urahara. He explains how he can’t face his family anymore, and that he’s scared that someone will get hurt if he cannot find a solution for this problem. He tells her about his fight with Ulquiorra, his failures and his fears, but he assures her that he has his friends now, and that he’s glad to have met such a strange group of people.

He goes back further, recounting his time in Soul Society, his bankai training, his confrontation with Byakuya. He talks about his fears over Rukia, cries with his desperation to save her, and laughs over the memory of how they met that fated night. He rants about Tōshirō, about the secrets that the Guard had kept and the promises he has made. He admits that he’s scared about how Tōshirō is doing – the lack of hell butterflies unnerves him, and he doesn’t want to think about what that means.

He doesn’t really make sense by the end of it, but his chest feels lighter than it has been in months, and the voices in his head have lulled into a hum of relief. The blaze of his reiryoku is but a candle-flicker now, a dim light burning endlessly at his core, but it releases a warmth into his soul that assures Ichigo of his choice. He has bottled so many things for so long, and as a blush rises onto his cheeks and he scratches his face in the silence that follows his tirade, the only thing left to do is apologise and wait for the ground to swallow him up.

Yet, in return for his honestly and his trust, Hinamori turns to him with a quivering lip and whispers –

“I loved my captain.”

– and Ichigo doesn’t doubt her for a second.

“Tell me about him,” he says, and Hinamori sniffs, her voice wobbling in a way that suggests that nobody has ever thought to ask for her opinion on the betrayal.

(Ichigo’s not surprised – even he had treated her like glass when they first met).

When they manage to crawl back to Inoue’s apartment at some god-awful hour that evening, their feet sluggish but their shoulders light, and their hair singeing at the edges from the burn of their hearts, they are hungry enough not to question whatever combination of substances is thrust under their noses. They crash onto the sofa with arms, legs, and heads knocking together, and Ichigo can’t find the energy to complain when Hinamori drifts off to sleep on his shoulder.

Matsumoto doesn’t ask about what happened, but there is a smile on her face when she collects the plates and carefully extracts the chopsticks from Hinamori’s oblivious grasp.

She might whisper _thanks_ , but exhaustion has melded reality and dream into a blur of semi-consciousness in Ichigo’s mind, and there’s every chance that he imagined it.

 

 

 

October darkens their halcyon days.

 

 

 

Winter approaches.

 

 

 

When the garganta gashes open the sky where Matsumoto’s team are training, it is Ichigo’s phone, rather than his substitute badge, that hollers out a warning from his pocket. Passing over the bag of shopping to Chad, Ichigo rummages around for the device and fishes it out by obnoxious phone charm that Rukia had blackmailed him into using. Ignoring the plastic duck (a rabbit had been one-step too far), he grumbles a greeting into the call, only for Rukia’s panic to cut him off.

“ _Ichigo_ , Aizen’s planning on using Karakura to make an Ōken –”

“The hell is an –?”

“– _shut up for a second!_ Orihime’s heading back to Karakura now. A squad from the Thirteenth is going with her, but it’ll take a while to get through the dangai. Captain Matsumoto has been informed, but you’ve got a group of Espada coming your –”

Chad barrels into him, a ten-tonne punch hurling them both to the ground. The street blasts open, brick and concrete shattering over them, and Ichigo chokes on the smoke and debris as his friend hauls him back onto his feet. He scrambles for the phone, shoving it back into his pocket with a curse when he realises that the fall has disconnected the call, and pulls out his shinigami badge instead.

A streak of electric blue through the smoke is their only warning. Chad meets Grimmjow’s attack with hardly a grunt of exertion, but they have both seen the Espada’s power before, and Ichigo steps out from behind Chad’s protective stance with Zangetsu in hand and words of dark intent upon his tongue –

“ _Getsuga Tenshō_!”

There is no time for hesitation. Ichigo may not understand what exactly an Ōken is, but he can appreciate its significance from Rukia’s tone. If Aizen is prepared to betray his entire society and initiate a war over it, then it must be important. If the shinigami are here to prevent Aizen from getting his hands on it, then Ichigo is going to do everything he can to help them – he’ll fight to ensure the safety of his friends, Ōken be damned.

Grimmjow is unharmed bar the fact that he is missing an _entire arm_ , and in the minutes it takes for the street to empty of smoke, Ichigo is astonished to think that _he_ has caused the damage. Yet, both parties are free from injury, and the path is spotless if one can look beyond the rubble and dust scattered around.

“He’s gotten stronger,” Chad remarks, keeping close to the ginger’s shoulder. His gigantic right arm brushes against Ichigo’s shihakushō, a promise and a warning conveyed.

“So have we,” the substitute replies, but the grip upon his zanpakuto is wary, the storm of his reiatsu raging through the blade. Weakened though Grimmjow may be from the aftermath of their last encounter, he is still number six, and Tōsen’s abrupt arrival had probably been all that had kept them alive last time.

The Hollow in Ichigo’s soul says nothing, but he can feel it cackling gleefully.

“We’ll just have to be smarter than he is,” Ichigo adds as the Espada reaches for his blade, drawing it from its sheath in a slow, taunting manner. _Had enough chitchat?_ the motion seems to say, the sneer amplified by Grimmjow’s rapacious grin.

Ichigo smirks and lifts Zangetsu, calling for his shadowy power. “Won’t be too difficult, huh?” he drawls, but Chad’s twitch of amusement is lost to the whirl of blackened hellfire and flames, a shout of _bankai!_ scorching up to the sky.

A cero carves through the air between them, obliterating the neighbourhood peace. Ichigo flickers past it and swings Zangetsu down; metal slices against metal, panthers brawling with claws and fangs of knives. Grimmjow is relentless and Ichigo matches him tooth for claw and blade for blade, the afternoon alight with sparks of reiatsu blazing into the sky.

“What happened Kurosaki?” the Espada shouts, thrusting the teenager back with a surge of rampant reiatsu, poison-blue and screaming into the street. “This all you got?”

Ichigo says nothing, throwing himself back into the fight. Zangetsu roars as the shadows of his bankai swallow the path, a Getsuga Tenshō howling up past the clouds. Grimmjow disappears into a sonído, Ichigo’s attack scarcely missing his laughter, and strikes the teenager with the _crack_ of bone crunching bone.

“El Directo!”

Ichigo spins, latching onto Grimmjow’s wrist and _hauling_ him into Chad’s attack. The Espada curses, attempting the same, but Ichigo shunpos away as the blast of spiritual energy echoes the previous cero, tearing into flesh and sizzling clothes.

Blades clash again – and again and again, their brawl fragmented only by the force of Chad’s tremendous punches and the splatter of blood and sweat, determination splotching bruises into their skin. The streets quake around them, the weight of their power seeming to shake the whole town. Ichigo is fast – faster than he was and ever has been – but the Espada is an animal and something of a machine, all sharp edges and wild instincts. Brute force isn’t enough to triumph over Grimmjow, and Ichigo curses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Chad blocks an attack that would have taken his head.

“What has Hinamori-san been teaching you?” Chad asks, calling over the whir of a cero charging before them. The air trembles as Grimmjow’s reiatsu whirls together, a scarlet sun taking aim.

Ichigo spits blood onto the ground.  “Not enough for this,” he grumbles, but as the cero fires and the teenagers hurtle away from the Espada’s triumphant stance, he knows there is something he can try.

“Time!” he yells, certain that Chad will understand. Reiatsu gathers beneath his feet, launching him towards the Espada and past – Chad throws himself at Grimmjow’s startled expression, punching the snarling Hollow down the opposite street. Another El Directo follows through, bright enough that all combatants are blind for a couple of seconds, but it’s just what Ichigo needs to recite the needed incantation, calling a rope of yellow lightning into his hands.

“Bakudō number four, hainawa!”

As it goes, it’s not his best attempt at a binding spell, but it succeeds in entangling Grimmjow’s ankles and toppling him into the concrete. The hainawa shatters at the impact, its golden bonds sizzling away, but it gives Ichigo the moment he needs to heave a Getsuga Tenshō into the fray, flinging fire and darkness at his opponent’s vulnerable form.

“Fucking cheater!” Grimmjow roars, batting the crimson fangs of energy away. “Fight me properly you arsehole! I didn’t come here to tear apart a pansy, you fucking –”

A cero explodes into existence, detonating into the pavement. Chad tumbles away, shrapnel slicing through his unprotected arm and legs, but Ichigo avoids the worst of the blast with a shunpo, flickering down to catch the Espada unawares.

“Bakudō number four!” he shouts again, shoving his hand forward. “Haina –”

A kick _smashes_ into his chest. As his ribs shatter and his body _burns_ with the reiatsu-enforced blow, Ichigo swears that he loses consciousness for a second. The world rolls around him, sky and earth blurred together, and his incomplete bakudō shoots off uselessly, flickering like a candle helpless in the storm.

The ground hits him just as hard as Grimmjow’s heel. Spots of darkness blind Ichigo’s sight, pain blazing through his chest and up his throat in a yell. Everything darkens for a moment, light and sound lost to the haze of his error, and as instincts force him to roll away from Grimmjow’s following strike and assume a defensive stance, the only thing Ichigo is aware of is the frost upon his skin, his breath, cold, gasping through lips turning blue.

Above Grimmjow, a butterfly sails.

“The hell?” the Espada asks, catching Ichigo’s gobsmacked expression. “Something on my face, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo would say _no_ , but the space between them flashes with a bright, amber light, and from the ground a box appears, climbing up and slotting itself together around the Espada’s struggling form. Grimmjow shouts, slamming himself against the translucent cage, but the cube remains impassive to the onslaught. The light brightens like the rising sun, burning the colours of autumn into Ichigo’s skin, but he is left unharmed by its touch.

Grimmjow, on the other hand, snarls louder, curses once more, and then disappears entirely, box and all.

“What the fuck,” says Ichigo. He doesn’t sheath Zangetsu – he doesn’t dare – but he is unable to stop the adrenaline from pouring out of his body at the resulting quiet. It is a winter’s silence, brisk and sweet, and Ichigo welcomes the frosty touch against his skin despite turning to face his November-dawning friend with a scowl.

“ _You_ ,” Ichigo growls, but that is all his anger can achieve before concern smothers the ferocious angles of his frown.

“Kurosaki-san,” Tōshirō says, his greeting as polite as ever despite the blood bespattered across his face – his skin and his clothes (his ridiculously white kimono and the stupid amount of layers of snow that he bundles himself in) are pale and ruined scarlet, dashed with the gore of a fight from moments ago.

“I do apologise,” says the Guard shortly, nodding to Chad when the other teenager edges closer, clearly as unnerved by the unexpected company as Ichigo. “But now is not the time for this discussion. Yasutora-san, take Inoue-san to Kisuke Urahara’s shop –”

 _Jesus Christ_ , Ichigo thinks, only just noticing Inoue’s presence. He hasn’t a _clue_ why she and Tōshirō would be together, but unlike the silver-cloaked shinigami, she seems mostly untouched by whatever misfortune Tōshirō has experienced. Yet, she doesn’t smile or chime a greeting when she notices Ichigo’s gaze, and that is enough to suggest that something is wrong.

“– and _do not_ delay,” Tōshirō instructs, regarding Chad with a steady expression.  Reiatsu shimmers around him as if the air is terrified of his authority, and Ichigo doesn’t blame it. His usual silvers and whites tainted by the crimson splatters of gore, Tōshirō _is_ terrifying.

 _What happened_ , he wants to ask, but the Guard’s apathetic expression and Inoue’s uncharacteristic silence makes Ichigo hold his tongue.

“Kurosaki-san, we should assist the team from Soul Society. The Espada will likely retreat once they realise that their mission has failed, but we cannot risk Inoue-san’s safety. I imagine the news of their failure will spread soon enough, but…”

He doesn’t say anymore, and instead looks off towards the park where Matsumoto’s team are fighting, a scowl dipping onto his face. Ice crackles at his feet, spanning out across the pavement, but the Guard waits for Ichigo to collect himself before shunpoing away.

Blood dribbles down his chin. There is even some knotted in his hair.

“Alright,” says Ichigo, feeling a little helpless. This is not how he envisioned their reunion to proceed, but he trusts Tōshirō, and he appreciates that there is more going on than he currently understands.

(For instance, where the _hell_ has Grimmjow gone, and how did Inoue get back from Soul Society so quickly?)

“Let’s go,” he says instead, readying Zangetsu. Farewells are exchanged with Chad and Inoue, smiles are attempted, and then the shinigami duo flicker away, leaving rubble and reiatsu in the aftermath of their battle behind them.

The air around the park is thick with ash when they arrive. Matsumoto, Hinamori, and Ikkaku are facing off against an Espada wielding what appear to be tentacles, and although Urahara is combatting Yammy by himself, it is this first fight that Ichigo charges towards, a Getsuga Tenshō blitzing along Zangetsu’s length.

Apparently unaware of the additional opponents, the girlish Espada continues to taunt the shinigami, his arrogance shrieking out in bubbly fits of laughter. His tentacles are fast, battering ruthlessly against the lieutenants’ defence, but Ikkaku appears more annoyed than harmed, his glower suggesting that the Espada’s laughter isn’t the only thing getting on his nerves. Hinamori, on the other hand, seems to be struggling against the attacks, and in the distance Matsumoto is shouting at her, begging her to do something that Ichigo can only just make out as he approaches –

“What do you mean you _can’t_?” the captain is saying, hair as frazzled as her tone. Volcanic ash has formed a shield before her, and behind her stands Yumichika, looking as if he has taken a dozen hits too many from the tentacles barrelling into Matsumoto’s barrier.

“I’m sorry!” Hinamori yells back, barely dodging the next attack. “I don’t – I should have been able – I just –”

“It’s your zanpakuto!” Matsumoto shouts, sounding frantic. “Release it!”

Ichigo cannot be sure what Hinamori is gasping about, but as the Espada draws closer and she teeters between instinct and terror, he knows that if she won’t release her zanpakuto, then somebody else is going to have to. He curses, lifts Zangetsu, and –

Ice explodes around them. There is a dragon’s roar of power descending upon them, bitterly cold and furious in its intent. Hinamori shrieks and Ichigo yells, but the arctic shards curve around her, a great pair of wings swooping over her head, diving towards its goal.

The Espada’s laughter freezes. His tentacles crumble away, a rain of hail shattering down into the park. The sculpture of ice entrapping the Espada in its clutch is magnificent, and Ichigo feels marvel at the sight of it – the same marvel he felt when he first met Tōshirō all those months ago.

(He cannot say he _awes_ his wintry friend anymore, but just for a second, Ichigo is glad that fate hasn’t put them on opposing sides).

“Your mission has failed, Espada,” the Guard declares, the announcement rebounding around the sudden stillness – the air itself seems to have frozen in shock, waiting with its breath held tight for permission to move again. Ichigo straightens up from where he has curled protectively over Hinamori, and around them, shinigami and Espada alike turn to stare at the godly newcomer. Tōshirō stands above them all, a brewing storm of ice and snow, and his voice rings out like thunder resounding around a plain.

“Leave,” Tōshirō says, and his zanpakuto slides back into its sheath without a sound.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /rolls around. Writing anything with Hinamori just about killed me I swear to _god_ it was so difficult /flails
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go! :) We'll be returning to the Royal Guard in the next chapter~


	6. Tōshirō III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favourite characters are finally back! :)
> 
> Yes. I mean the butterflies.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!

 

When Kurosaki and his friends announce their return to the Human World, still healing from the force of Aizen’s plot and Soul Society’s fraying defence, but brighter now, the teenagers that they are supposed to be, Tōshirō knows that the time to avoid his errors has ended. As much as his sentry entails him to stay at Kurosaki’s side, there are matters of the Royal Guard to deal with, and Tōshirō is heartened in his knowledge of Kurosaki’s strength – his bankai, a blaze, and the firepower of his will burning stronger than ever. The teenager has hurdles to overcome, internal struggles and forces from the world that will never leave him be, but the Guard is certain that Kurosaki will prevail in their time apart.

Tōshirō will return to Karakura when he is needed, desired, or perhaps even missed – or when he can escape from the overseeing eyes of his commander, no doubt, and the King that he has defied.

 _I apologise_ , is probably not going to remedy his faults.

With the humans safely returned to the contemporary bustle of their lives (for now, that is, and hopefully for a while more), Tōshirō gathers the frays and threads of his mistakes and prepares to depart the Soul Society. The winter daphne insignia is bold across his back, a revelation of power to all those he encounters (few and far between, but allies he is glad to have, and family that he has greatly missed). To most of Soul Society, he is a shadow with the touch of light, a breeze of midwinter passing by unnoticed amidst their gloomy outlooks. To them, he is nobody, just as he is everything they could dream of, but Tōshirō does not mind the distance between them. His friends and family know him better, and when one reigns alone over the north most point of the King’s realm, a little bit of understanding is all he needs.

 _Don’t be a stranger_ , they say, wishing him well. Unohana smiles her terrifying mirth, and Ukitake bestows a basket full of sweets upon him, all wrapped up in ribbons of rainbows and laughter. Tōshirō doesn’t know what to say to the smothering affection so he says nothing (somehow, _Captain Ukitake please, I outrank you_ , probably won’t go down too well), and Kyoraku shares his silence with the tip of his hat and nothing more, not quite smiling and not quite restraining the shadows of his aura.

Tōshirō uses the basket as a shield from Matsumoto’s hug and is pleasantly surprised at its effectiveness. He makes a note to stay on Ukitake’s good side and catalogues the advantages that this could bring.

Momo is quiet when he says his goodbyes. The Fourth released her from its clutches some days ago, but the lieutenant has seldom strayed from the comforts of her quarters. Fortunately, Matsumoto and Ukitake have agreed to reduce her workload while she recovers, but the Fifth Division still ache to see their lieutenant – to confirm with their own eyes of her wellbeing. Tōshirō is careful as he traverses through their halls, reducing his presence to a mere glimmer of his grandeur. Shadows are unwelcome in the Fifth, and even his gentle movements could spark the rage that they feel. He does not wish to do them harm – more so than he already has. If he had been faster, stronger, and smarter, then maybe Aizen’s plot could have been intercepted, and maybe Momo would feel happy when she smiles, her lips curving up into a twisted frown.

Her _thank you_ is sincere, but Tōshirō grumbles it away. He doesn’t need or deserve her gratitude – not when there was _so much more_ that he could have done – but Momo makes no further mention of what could have been. The past is already haunting her sleepless dreams and the tempest of her thoughts, the truth and trickery howling together with a lament shrieking endlessly with betrayal. Added reminders of Aizen’s treachery will not aid her recovery, and instead Tōshirō draws their closing conversation towards the future – her division’s prosperity and the happiness that seems so far away.

“You’ll be back, won’t you, Shiro-chan?” Momo asks, watching his departure from behind the frazzled tangles of her hair. Propriety fails her, a lieutenant worn down into heavy limbs and an aching heart, but Tōshirō is glad for the familiarity between them.

“I promise. Take care of yourself, bed-wetter,” he says, hoping that his commander will allow him to keep this vow. Hyōsube may be his superior in every aspect, but Tōshirō will be damned before he lets anybody stand in the way of him and his family. Orders are orders, but family is everything, and the Guard can only wish that he had realised this earlier.

(Maybe Momo and Matsumoto would mean it when they smile).

(And maybe Kurosaki would have his soul in balance – Hollow and zanpakuto alike).

Tōshirō hesitates before tucking a stray stand of hair behind his sister’s ear. It’s not quite the forehead-kiss that he had been aiming for, but Momo seems to understand.

Night enshrouds his home within the Royal Realm, a shadow from the King’s palace looming over its lands. The lake about the temple’s grounds is untouched beyond the shine of moonlight, the frozen surface reflecting back the emptiness of darkness into the sky. Lights are absent from the halls in which Tōshirō dwells, but he finds his way with eyes closed to the dawn and feet tracking a ceaseless path, the forest bowing before him to guide him home. The realm is still beyond his gentle entrance into its lands, but Tōshirō is certain that his arrival is known. Their dominions provide only the sense of privacy – in the eyes of their King, nothing is truly unknown except the state of their hearts, perhaps, beating even when their thoughts betray them.

There is nobody waiting for Tōshirō when the temple’s majesty bids him welcome, but then there never is. Before, this had bothered him little, but as he makes his way through darkened halls into the heart of his home, a twist of loneliness takes shape upon his face. He misses the madness of the Soul Society, he realises, with its thousand troops and thousand echoes of laughter. The Royal Realm is so very _empty_ , and Tōshirō sighs as he reaches the bedroom, wondering if Kurosaki has returned to a home as vacant as this.

He lights the nearest lamp with a kidō flare, squinting when the candle flicker burns his gaze. Shadows rush to escape the golden glow about him, and Tōshirō swivels around just in time to catch the disorientated fluttering of the molten darkness splodged across his room. The flock of hell butterflies freeze, a hundred eyes turning as one to stare at the Guard, and then there is an _eruption_ of chirpy clicking noises as their tumbling begins anew.

“What,” Tōshirō says, and it’s all he can manage before the butterflies _swoop_ down upon him, clicking and clacking and flustering about him, bumping into each other and clambering all over his clothes.

 _You’re back, you’re back, you’re back!_ they seem to screech, nesting in his hair and diving between the folds of his kimono. For a collection of artificial organisms that he designed to be discreet, Tōshirō finds their volume surprising. He _shushes_ them, blowing the more enthusiastic ones away from his face with a huff of icy breath, but it does little to cease their animation.

“Alright, alright, stop,” he snaps, brushing a squabbling pair from his shoulder. He forces his way further into the bedroom, shaking the flock from the glacial weight of his robes. They click-clack at his intolerance, a collective, disheartened darkness, but Tōshirō pays them no heed as he lights the rest of the paper lamps, illuminating the disorder of the bedroom. Paper is strewn about, books are lying open and torn, and the futon looks like it has been ransacked by the thousand pathetic _puppies_ that he seems to have unwittingly created.

Somehow, the hell butterflies emit an air of _shame_.

“You shouldn’t be capable of _missing me_ ,” Tōshirō grumbles, dancing about them to get to the wardrobe. He opens it with trepidation, hoping that the butterflies have shown _some_ restraint in tearing apart his room. Upon realising that his wardrobe is creature-free, the Guard changes quickly, prodding the occasional stray butterfly from his clothes. Then, free from the weight of his kimono – a tundra of responsibilities and mistakes – to relax instead into a yukata woven from stardust and spring clouds, light and warm where his uniform is cold, Tōshirō gives his flustering creations a long, musing look.

He would _swear_ that apathy characterised them on the day of his departure. It always _had_. Their design encodes a communicative tool, an artificial construct masquerading as a living organism. While he has been attempting a system that can learn, assess, and decide, his increased involvement with Kurosaki and the Soul Society hasn’t granted the time to implement his ideas effectively.

Only now, their shimmers of glee scatter snowflakes and reiatsu across the floorboards, and Tōshirō doesn’t know _how_. Reishi is merely the matter that builds their world – it has the capacity to create, shape, and manipulate, but it cannot produce emotions by itself. An external influence is needed to catalyse it, and while Tōshirō may be closer to the King than most, his powers are still but a speck in comparison to that of their ruler.

(The King creates. And the King destroys).

(The right to touch the world falls upon no other).

The Guard sighs and settles down for bed. The butterflies scatter about him, clustering the bedroom with their sleepy chirps. Tōshirō watches them fumble and rolls his eyes, deciding to continue his assessment come the morn. The shadowy creatures seem not to mind their evolution, and Tōshirō cannot deny that their endearing qualities have only grown with the mystery that surrounds them.

 _It is nice to be welcomed back for once_ , he thinks, drifting away into the plane between realities, a haven from thoughts of duty and war. He sleeps throughout the night, undisturbed by the gentle pitter-patter of shadows across his skin and dreams behind his eyes. When the auburn hues of morning navigate the rising dawn, and the afternoon sun beckons daybreak and evening to collide, the Guard sleeps on as if night still plagues his mind, ensnaring him in rest. Eventually, the hell butterflies depart for the rooftops, assured by their creator’s presence, but even their comings-and-goings through the hallways of their home are not enough to rouse the man. They mind little, long used to making their own entertainment, but they would note, if they could, that Tōshirō’s slumber is unusual, and perhaps rightly deserved.

When he does awaken, slowly, blearily, with a head full of hailstorms and a yawn of arctic roars, he pushes the quilt away and almost splatters himself into the rather helping plate of steamed dumplings sitting at his side. The dish is easily enough to satisfy a growling appetite far larger than his own, and Tōshirō is relieved not to have knelt in it as he gathers up his bed-head thoughts and tidies away the futon. There is a note, too, stuck to one of the pork dumplings and equally as sticky, and in Hikifune’s swirly hand it tells him to eat, eat some more, and then rest, and that she’ll likely be visiting to ensure he doesn’t starve.

“I _am_ capable of feeding myself,” Tōshirō grumbles to no one in particular, flipping over the note to spy a postscript jotted in the corner.

 _Forgive me for not changing your bandages_ , it says, in what appears to be a rather hurried manner in comparison to the former message, _but your hell butterflies kicked up a storm! Very effective little guard dogs you have there, Tōshirō-kun, I’m impressed!_

He curses and slips a hand under his yukata, running fingertips across the fabric wrapped around his torso. His skin comes away clean so he doesn’t appear to have ripped open any of the stitches, but infection is still a possibility if the bandages aren’t regularly changed. Only one other rivals Unohana’s work, and Tōshirō knows that he is fortunate that his confrontation with Aizen concluded the way it did; without the captain’s expertise, Momo and he would likely have died, and the Guard crumples up Hikifune’s message with a scowl, hating his own weakness.

His strength is not enough to protect his family. What use is his control over the heavens if he does not have the resolution to break open the skies? What use is his ability to traverse between the worlds if commands restrict him – demand that he restrain the momentum of his existence and hold back the change that he could bring?

Why has he been assigned to Kurosaki if the King requires he stay his hand?

Tōshirō doesn’t know, but lest he disturbs the King’s eternal isolation and appeals for answers, he imagines he never will.

Disheartened but vowing to shake it off before Hikifune comes knocking, the Guard goes to prepare some tea. He takes the dumplings with him, nibbling on them as he maunders the hallways of his home. A dozen or so hell butterflies await his arrival in the kitchen, dotted about the cupboards like the uncontainable splodges they are, staining the wooden surfaces with their insistent clicks and clacks. Tōshirō pays them no mind except to roll his eyes as he recalls Hikifune’s postscript, although he does have to wave them away from the plate of food when they wobble too near.

Once the tea has brewed, the wintry shinigami treks back to his room to replace his bandages. Bruises mar his chest, blossoming purple and yellow across his ribs, so Tōshirō takes his time with the treatment. The jagged wound across his shoulder twinges when he pulls the bandages too hard, but for the most part, Unohana’s care is evident. A part of the Guard still longs for Kisuke Urahara’s healing spring, but he’s definitely not going to request a dip in Kirinji’s White Bone Hell and Blood Pond Hell springs, so he’ll have to make do with kaidō and tea.

(If only tea solved everything).

After tidying up the mess that Aizen made of his chest and enjoying his tea in short, irregular sips and complaints about the scorching temperature, Tōshirō cannot bring himself to venture further than his bed. In a move of undeniable cowardice, he snacks on a few more dumplings and then curls himself back under the quilt, burying every inch of his insignificance into the futon. He pulls Hyorinmaru’s elegant blade close enough to feel its ceaseless shivers against the cocoon of warmth that the bed provides, and then closes his eyes to the realm of the gods, hoping his dreams will carry him somewhere kinder.

He sleeps in fits and starts, plagued by nightmares of _what could have been_ and _what almost had_ , but sleep he does. When he wakes for the second time – the third time, more likely, or the fourth, fifth, or sixth – innumerable hours have passed. The sun is high into the afternoon, streaming sunlight of a dateless day into the bedroom. Tōshirō feels like he has slept a week and then some, groggy and dishevelled as he tumbles out of bed, and he almost _blinds_ himself on the immensity of Hikifune’s grin when he opens the  _[shōji](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sh%C5%8Dji) _ to let in the daylight.

“Aha! Look who’s finally awake!” she chimes from the doorway, and though he won’t ever admit it, the December-wearing shinigami just about _dies_ of shock.

“Hikifune-dono!” Tōshirō blurts, gathering his yukata into a more modest fold about himself. He does not _scramble_ but it is a close thing, and the woman’s rowdy laughter suggests he wasn’t quite as successful at hiding his blunder as intended.

“My, you _have_ just rolled out of bed, haven’t you?” she cackles, giving his tousled appearance a considerate glance. “I do apologise for waking you – I had hoped to catch you unawares.”

Tōshirō almost waves away her apology and explains that he had woken without her involvement, but Hikifune’s closing statement has an odd, almost _foreboding_ air about it, and instead the sleepy Guard enquires as to _why_ sneaking about his house had been on his colleague’s agenda.

Hikifune scratches her cheek and makes a strange, childish expression with the vivid black curves of her lips. She doesn’t elaborate on her presence, but she doesn’t need to, not when the cheer of her greeting seems to slip its way off the happy roundness of her face.

“I see,” Tōshirō says, drawing himself up to stand a little straighter, a little taller beside Hikifune’s vast form. The sunlight of the morning refracts around her figure, casting his weary countenance into shadow, and Tōshirō cringes as the darkness crawls across his skin.

“He’s that angry, huh?”

There is no question of to whom he refers.

The plum-haired Ruler of Grain gives him a look he can’t discern – a condolatory sorrow, but one softened at the edges by an air of assurance that seems misplaced given the gravity of the situation. Hyōsube is not a force to be reckoned with; mission-driven and second only to the King, his mercy is as fleeting as his shadows, and as wild as the gleam in his eyes. Disobeying the will of their ruler is a grave offence, and Tōshirō doesn’t need Hikifune’s wavering demeanour to inform him of the impending confrontation.

Yet – as Hikifune’s hand drops away and she finds the words to assure him, not condemn him as he expects – perhaps Tōshirō _does_ need to rethink his perilous outlook.

“I think… you’ll be surprised,” she says slowly, nodding to reassure either herself or Tōshirō’s doubtful expression. “He’s had a few weeks to think about it all, and I’ve already had to knock some sense into him. He won’t be coming near my frying pans any time soon, I assure you. Ichibē has a firm sense of duty, yes, one that he hates to have exceptions for, but he is not _intentionally_ cruel for all the reasons there are to fear him, and fear him people do.”

Tōshirō begins to speak (begins to say something sentimental and vulnerable – something like, _you stood up for me?_ ) but he cuts himself off before the thought can articulate itself into a rush of surprise. Instead, he clears his throat and pointedly does not look into Hikifune’s eyes when she smiles.

“Of course,” she says, her merry chime returning. “Kurosaki-san is a good lad. You both are, you know.”

Tōshirō doesn’t say _thank you_ to the slightly backwards compliment, but this is more to do with his tongue’s refusal to work, rather than any misgivings about the _lad_ comment.

“Plus, these last couple of days have really set things into perspective,” Hikifune adds as an afterthought, pondering to herself as Tōshirō tries not to seem _too_ relieved at her support. She gives him another look that he can’t interpret, and with her cryptic words and seemingly superhuman understanding, Tōshirō can only wonder what has passed between the other Guards while he slumbered on. Hikifune may be full of good food and cheer, but she isn’t the type to take disagreements lightly. That she has confronted Hyōsube without Tōshirō’s prior knowledge is both a blessing and a curse – he is glad to have found a friend in this isolated kingdom, but their commander is not a man he wants to make an enemy of. He can only hope that Hikifune had restrained her pots and pans from leaving Hyōsube with any permanent damage.

“They have?” he asks, prompting for further information to clear up his confusion. What does Hikifune mean by ‘ _things_ ’, and what have they been put into perspective with? Does this bode well for his eventual meeting with Hyōsube, or are there consequences to come – consequences for the Soul Society and Kurosaki’s safety?

Unfortunately for Tōshirō, the King did not bestow the title of the _Northern Intelligence_ upon all of his Guards.

“Yes,” Hikifune replies, her simple summary oblivious to his underlying questions. “There is nothing to worry about, Tōshirō-kun. These things have a funny way of sorting themselves out. Ichibē isn’t a fool, and even he cannot deny that our King chose you to watch over Kurosaki-san for a reason – whatever that reason may be. I mean, I can _definitely_ think of a couple –”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Tōshirō interrupts, recognising Hikifune’s teasing tone. It is a cue for the end of their grim discussion, and while he would prefer to acquire a fuller insight into Hyōsube’s current state of mind, the wintry shinigami takes his colleague’s happiness as a positive omen.

(It’s his only optimistic sign).

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks, bringing the conversation back to Hikifune’s original reason for sneaking about. From somewhere above her, likely scattered in heaps and bounds about the roof, the sound of the hell butterflies rings clear into the morning. Tōshirō glances past Hikifune’s violet head up to the empty vastness of his land, where only a hundred black shapes dot the sky, their undisturbed reflections soaring across the lake. A yearning to join them distracts him for a moment, and within the deepest part of his soul Hyorinmaru rumbles, his great power resounding with Tōshirō’s desire.

_It’s been a while, hasn’t it my friend?_

Hyorinmaru says nothing in reply, but Tōshirō can feel his soul resonating with the need to stretch his wings and fly, and that is enough between them, as it always has been.

“Well,” Hikifune says then, reminding the shinigami of the other conversation he is participating in. “I _was_ going to drag you to Tenjirō, but I suppose that isn’t necessary now that you’re up and about. Luckily for you. I _did_ bring you some food though, just in case you were in any state to appreciate it, and I’m glad you are!”

She presses a rather weighty box into his hands, insisting that he take it. Tōshirō does so without his usual grumblings, aware that the reiatsu-infused meal is a far better alternative than taking a dip in the hot springs. Yet, that Kirinji’s healing springs are even an option is surprising, and Tōshirō mumbles his gratitude for the consideration, realising with a flicker of guilt (and something pleasant and warm) that his colleagues are _concerned_.

Hikifune smiles her everlasting smile. “I’ll let Tenjirō know that you’re alright for now,” she says. “But you know what he’s like – proud to the point of patronising. You’ll be in those springs the second he thinks you’re not healing properly.”

“Right,” Tōshirō replies a little helplessly, unsure what to do with this knowledge. The other Guards usually keep to themselves – that is, they seldom interact with Tōshirō, and he can only assume that they treat each other in the same manner, so it is unlike Kirinji to volunteer his medical abilities to somebody who isn’t on the verge of death. The terrifying influence of Hikifune’s “talk” with Hyōsube must have reached every corner of the realm if even Kirinji is surrendering to her every whim, and Tōshirō cannot decide whether sleeping through it had been a wise idea.

Yet, he can be sure of one thing in this strange Royal Realm that he has awoken to, if nothing else.

He _really_ isn’t looking forward to his conversation with Hyōsube.

 

 

 

As his injuries heal and his body remembers how to function with a sleep-wake cycle of time-efficiency and productivity – nocturnalilty is _not_ on his to-do list – Tōshirō finds his corner of the realm undisturbed by his fellow Guards. Whether this has positive implications or suggests that something (someone) is bidding its time, Tōshirō does not know, and it is this ever-increasing list of things beyond his knowledge that eventually drives the wintry Guard to take matters into his own hands.

His first challenge is the hell butterflies. (Really, his first _should_ be facing up to insubordination and hoping that the Royal Realm deals with it in a more forgiving manner than the Soul Society, but Hikifune’s puzzling reassurance has left his mind abuzz and it’s better to start with small steps, he rationalises).

Actually – his _second_ challenge is the hell butterflies. His first, in fact, is finding a way of reprimanding the mountain of a beast that dwells within his soul without, that is, actually _reprimanding_ the unrelenting glacial force. (The word carries a weighty, condescending connotation, and Hyorinmaru is many things beyond the minds of man, but _childish_ is definitely not one of them). Still. Reversing the spontaneous ice age that the dragon accidentally inflicted upon his home is going to take a while, that is for sure. The prospect of flight after such a length period of tethering _is_ a desirable one, Tōshirō will admit, but a small amount of self-restraint would have been preferable from the greater half of his soul.

“Heavens above,” mumbles the Guard, shaking the pile of snow that seems to have gathered atop his head away. He brushes the tip of his zanpakuto against the ground, hoping to will the inch-thick layer of ice to disappear, but it remains firm just like the rest of Hyorinmaru’s power, storm clouds brewing above and a dusting of snow drifting around.

Resigning himself to the winter-wonderland without _that_ much reservation, Tōshirō glances around the clearing and notes that the entire forest covering his domain seems to have died instantaneously. Upon heaving a sigh of icy dragon fire and exasperation, he notices that the vast majority of tree leaves have remained frozen to their branches, the rapid drop in temperature having forgone the passing of summer and autumn to settle on winter instead, its silvery beauty entombing spring in all its glory.

“Oh dear,” says Tōshirō, wondering how far Hyorinmaru’s icy ring has stretched. His bankai training had been in its early days when he had last made such a rookie mistake, and he hopes that the heart of his home has remained untouched by the snow. If not – well. The hell butterflies probably had a bit of a shock, but Tōshirō can do nothing about it now.

He hasn’t seen Hyorinmaru this enthusiastic in a long time.

(Guilt makes him stay his anger).

A rumble from within his soul – thunder crashing impatiently, calling forth the lightning – encourages Tōshirō to disregard his concerns about the cold. Hyorinmaru grants an unrivalled resistance to its bitter touch, and Tōshirō has always considered the dragon’s vast influence to be beautiful in the most striking of ways. The tundra is as comforting as it is chilling, and the Guard is helpless to fight back his laughter as the call of their bankai _storms_ through him, a whiteout of sheer _power_ uncurling its colossal form.

Wings spread afar, reaching for the ends of the sky. The forest bows around them, submitting to the midwinter spirit. Hyorinmaru lifts his head, scarlet eyes gazing far away, and Tōshirō responds to his zanpakuto’s desire by echoing the motion, the ice encasing his body catching the sunlight’s shine.

 ** _I do believe we have yet to discover how far this land stretches_** , the dragon declares, his ancient tone light with idle curiosity.

 _Not for the lack of trying_ , Tōshirō replies with a roll of his eyes. He doubts the King’s most personal creation has any limits, but the thrill is in the mystery, rather than any _true_ yearning to map the edges of the world.

_How far shall we go?_

Hyorinmaru ponders the question. The wings of their bankai seem to quiver with anticipation. **_Further_** , he says. **_To the end and back_**.

 _We won’t find it_ , Tōshirō replies, but the idea amuses him, just as the assurance of his zanpakuto’s infinitude warms him. They will always soar together – to wherever they go, and wherever they return from.

(Perhaps _to the end and back_ is a wish for fools – an unattainable dream for the young and the naïve – but then who is not a fool in this imperfect, impossible world?)

 ** _But we will find something_** , Hyorinmaru states, as if he has no doubt of their success. **_And is that not worth searching for?_**

Tōshirō concedes with a smile. Snow crunches about him as he prepares to soar. _You are impossible, Hyorinmaru. What ever am I going to do with you?_

A laugh rolls from between the dragon’s colossal jaws of ice and teeth. **_Why, Tōshirō, child,_** he says, ignoring the shinigami’s fond aggravation at the endearment. ** _I should hope to do_ everything _with you._**

 

 

 

Once the sky’s dance has repeated half a dozen times, they return.

They did not find the boundaries to the King’s world, but then they never expected to.

This isn’t to say that Tōshirō found nothing else along the way – a freedom long forgotten and a heart carved of gold, encased within the greys of his regrets and the silvers of his woes, loneliness and fear having frozen it to stone.

( _I don’t want Kurosaki to face Aizen on his own_ , Tōshirō had confessed to his other half, resting somewhere high and unreachable above the clouds, a place untouched by manipulations and sorrow.

**_Then ensure he does not._ **

Tōshirō had sighed, reaching up as if to gather stardust in the palm of his hand. _I fear it isn’t as simple as that, Hyorinmaru. Hyōsube may disagree, but if I have the will of our King to guide my hand, then what can he say to stop me?_

**_Nothing. There is nothing he could say, little one._ **

_But what if I don’t have the King’s approval? What can I do? Nobody has ever questioned our King before._

The dragon had echoed the sigh from his soul, curling around the mountaintop upon which they are watching the turn of the world. And he had said then, his voice the tempest of Antarctica winters:

 ** _Perhaps the time has come for somebody to do so_** ).

 

 

 

Calmer now that his soul has soared, Tōshirō goes about the business that he has neglected. The day of their return rolls on, and Hyorinmaru curls himself into slumber as the Guard potters about the kitchen, searching the storage for enough food to make up for all the meals he has missed. Teapot after teapot is brewed, and though Tōshirō is not one to gorge himself, he does spare a wishful thought for Hikifune’s ability as he dines on the quickest, most effortless meal that he can cook.

That Hikifune has yet to barge her way into his home is surprising, but perhaps it is a sign that Tōshirō shouldn’t try to predict the behaviour of his fellow Guards.

He considers writing a letter to Momo, getting as far as gathering the paper and ink to note his thoughts, only to find that thoughts escape him when his calligraphy brush demands the words. Disheartened, Tōshirō resolves to write the moment something worth mentioning occurs and tries not to feel guilty as he puts the stationary away. His sister will not wish to hear about his wavering sleeping schedule and the growing tension about the Royal Realm, but Tōshirō is determined to write at least one letter in the coming days and deliver it personally to the Fifth Division in the hopes that it will be well received.

With little else to do but ponder the state of the Soul Society and Kurosaki’s wellbeing, the Guard turns to tinkering with the hell butterflies to see what has prompted their evolution into sentimentality. After many hours of work, he fails to pinpoint the source of the change, but that may be due to the untimely knock upon his door rather than any blunders on his part.

For the slightest of seconds, Tōshirō believes it to be Hikifune, and then he realises why his experimental hell butterflies are scrambling about the room in terror.

“Ah, Hitsugaya-san,” says the shadow at his door, watching Tōshirō’s small movements with Hyōsube’s scarlet eyes. The man isn’t smiling for once, and the wintry Guard feels himself shrink in uncertainty, unsettled by his commander’s strange behaviour. Tōshirō has encountered little else more threatening than Hyōsube’s grin, so for it _not_ to supplement the Guard’s booming greeting bodes ill tidings for this conversation.

(That, or it’s a _positive_ sign, but Tōshirō isn’t about to take his chances despite Hikifune’s assurances).

“Hyōsube-dono,” he says, rising to greet his commander. Behind him, the hell butterflies plaster themselves in the furthest corners of the room, but if Hyōsube notes the fear that drives their motions, he makes no comment as Tōshirō bids him welcome.

“Thank you,” says Hyōsube, waving away the invitation into the temple. “But I have no intention of intruding. Come, walk with me, I would like to have a word.”

He beckons the younger Guard to abandon his work – not that the butterflies have given Tōshirō much choice in this – and strolls away in a silence broken only by the clip-clop of his shoes. Tōshirō follows, recognising that there is nothing to be done except obey the clipped order. He gives his hell butterflies one last, firm look – _you didn’t have to make it so obvious_ – before steeling himself to step into Hyōsube’s shadow.

They leave Tōshirō’s domain behind them and head south to where Hyōsube’s city endures. (All points are south beyond the forest that winds beneath the palace, but he has always considered Hyōsube’s dwelling to be the southernmost – the King’s first and last defence). Their travel is silent through the Royal Realm bar the occasional clatter of prayer beads, but Tōshirō has no thoughts to gather in the respite. He has pondered this conversation for days and weeks, turning concerns and reassurances over in his mind, but Hyōsube is still beyond his prediction.

(This is to be expected of the King’s first and finest, but it bothers Tōshirō all the same).

Reishi dense enough to suffocate the weak-willed and unprepared surrounds the commander’s dojo. It has been many years since Tōshirō stepped foot within the boundaries of Hyōsube’s home, but he keeps pace as they ascend the entrance staircase, the tightening of his shoulders the only indication that he feels the air weighing down upon him. The atmosphere is a stark contrast to that of his own domain – a world lightened by the sky and lifted by the breeze, where reishi and being alike soar high into the clouds – and he soon hopes to return to that freedom. Hyōsube’s dojo is of a simple design, but though one would struggle to lose himself within the open interior, the slippery clutch of the commander’s reiatsu is a labyrinth in itself. Only the strongest, most resilient can enter the dojo, and only those that burn the brightest through the dark can leave.

“I have had much to think about in your absence, as I am sure you have,” Hyōsube begins as they approach the building, apparently confident enough in Tōshirō’s ability to remain a step behind to forgo addressing the younger Guard directly. “Come inside, we have much to discuss.”

Tōshirō inclines his head, a silent, unseen agreement. He follows the other Guard inside, dutifully keeping himself tidy as they cross the main training hall, and just about stumbles over his feet when Hyōsube waves him into a seat and offers to pour him _tea_.

Tea. From the man second only to the Soul King.

He manages a quiet _thank you_ in response. The urge to take the teapot and reverse their roles makes his hands twitch, and Tōshirō whacks his knuckles against the table in his haste to hide them.

( _I think… you’ll be surprised_ , Hikifune had said).

(Well, Tōshirō is definitely _surprised_ ).

“Kirio insists that your actions have been driven by duty,” Hyōsube goes on, passing over the drink. He pauses to take a sip despite the scalding temperature, and Tōshirō quickly huffs his icy breath across his own drink before doing the same. “And while I am sure there is a measure of truth in her claim, I wonder if your definition of _duty_ has come to change over these past few months.”

The words of formality and politics that construct Tōshirō’s lexicon are not enough to argue against such a statement, so he takes a rather helping gulp of tea and hopes the heat will fry his tongue into working.

It doesn’t, but Hyōsube continues as if he had never expected an answer in the first place. “I can understand why the King has tasked you with Ichigo Kurosaki’s safety. The boy is young and untamed, but his strength in his ability to adapt – to grow. There was no doubt that you were the one Kurosaki would find the most approachable. He is an open-minded boy, extraordinarily so, but perhaps that is his weakness. Your involvement was to be beneficial for our King. Without a hand to guide the boy, I wondered if Kurosaki’s _sympathies_ would yield a tricky dilemma –”

“You insult him,” Tōshirō says, interjecting the alarm bells ringing in his mind. A glower takes shape on his face unbidden, his forehead creasing at the slur against Kurosaki’s nature. Hyōsube’s prayer beads clatter as the elder Guard tilts his head, intrigued by the fire in Tōshirō’s words – a spark unexpected in this dense, interrogative atmosphere. “Kurosaki-san may be young, but he not a fool. His morality will not allow him to waver from protecting those he deems worthy – and I assure you, Sōsuke Aizen is not on that list.”

Hyōsube laughs low and long, smacking his great belly in time with his rumbling amusement. “Sōsuke Aizen?” he barks, dismissing Tōshirō’s concerns with a careless wave. “I care not for any man who wishes to traverse beyond the realm of mortality. His desires are pitiful – insignificant. He does not understand the path he has chosen, and his blindness will be his downfall. The Ōken is not merely a relic to be passed around! Only a fool would truly believe that any bar the King could create such a world. No – forgot Aizen. He means nothing.”

Tōshirō has to stop himself from biting back at his commander. Sōsuke Aizen may be of little significance in the eyes of the Royal Guard, but to Gotei Thirteen, he is a traitor and a threat, and somebody worthy of the fear that the shinigami feel. War is upon the Soul Society, and it _hurts_ to hear Hyōsube disregard it so casually.

 _My family will be risking their lives against Aizen_ , Tōshirō doesn’t say, instead smothering his fury with another mouthful of tea. The liquid scalds his throat, but Hyōsube’s indifference burns behind his eyes. _What about yours?_

“Rather,” Hyōsube says, going on as if he is unaware of Tōshirō’s frustration – as if he truly could be unaware of anything in this world. “We both know that Kurosaki has a tremendous amount of potential, but I feel that I am the only one who worries about his naivety. You see, I do not want him to –” He pauses, humming to decide the least offensive term, and then says, “– make an enemy of himself, or else as dire.”

For the second time since his assignment as Kurosaki’s guard, Tōshirō wants to pitch his cup of tea into Hyōsube’s great, bearded, misinformed _face_.

“Kurosaki-san has done nothing to warrant a greater mistrust than _Aizen_ ,” he replies, scarcely restraining himself from lobbing the teacup. It would do no good to further anger Hyōsube, although Tōshirō is sure that the satisfaction would _almost_ be worth it. The commander needs to be knocked down a few pegs – to Tōshirō’s height, perhaps, and then maybe he will be able to see just how _misguided_ his opinions are. To suggest that _Ichigo Kurosaki_ of all people – hopeless, exasperating, unbelievable Kurosaki – is a potential threat to the Royal Realm is the most ridiculous thing Tōshirō has _ever_ heard.

Clearly Hyōsube has never actually _met_ the young man. Anybody who does always unwittingly ends up gravitating around Kurosaki’s fiery will; it is unavoidable, just as the suns explode into supernova and the stars collide far away. Kurosaki _inspires_ those around him, burning the brightest within the constellation of souls that he has earned. To hear Hyōsube’s doubt stirs something fierce within Tōshirō – something terribly cold and something dangerously hot, a feeling raging like the wildfire of Kurosaki’s blaze.

(It’s not hatred – no, it’s entirely the opposite).

“Do not be so hasty to paint me as the villain, Hitsugaya-san,” says Hyōsube, a warning in his tone. “Your attachment to the boy is part of the problem –”

“All Kurosaki-san wants is to keep his friends _safe_ ,” Tōshirō interrupts, setting down his tea before he _does_ do something irreversible with it. It clanks against the tabletop with the snappish, heavy sound of his vexation, but ice it is not, and Hyōsube reacts little bar the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. “He cares not for power or fame. He _is_ powerful, but only out of necessity. He would _never_ aspire to Aizen’s attainments or goals, I guarantee it. He has _no_ desire to revolutionise the Soul Society.”

“That isn’t to say he never will. You _know_ I am correct, Hitsugaya-san. The King has seen it, yes, but even we, lesser as we are, are not blind to the change that the boy will bring.”

Tōshirō hates that he cannot deny it. Kurosaki _is_ a turning point – the linchpin in Aizen’s defeat – and though he may not entertain any of Aizen’s malicious thoughts of revolution, his presence is enough to influence the Soul Society. Rescuing Rukia Kuchiki may have been his goal, but the mere act of charging through the Seireitei and declaring that an age-old tradition is _wrong_ would have turned a few heads.

Byakuya Kuchiki’s change of heart is a prime example, and Tōshirō feels himself deflate as Hyōsube’s point cements itself into the thick, suffocating silence in the air. Hands flex in his lap, seeking ice-cold reassurance and only finding infinite folds of fabric. He hesitates, shoulders dropped low, but his zanpakuto’s echoing voice interrupts before Tōshirō can find the words to reply.

 ** _Persevere_** , comes Hyorinmaru’s formidable rumble, calling directly through the blizzard of his thoughts. **_There is more that we do not know. Is the time of change not upon us?_**

The great dragon moves across their icy landscape, shifting away the heavy weight of Tōshirō’s fears. The Guard breathes a sigh as the burden is lifted, swept away by the arctic of their world, and lets his head rise again with Hyorinmaru’s heartening call.

Opposite, Hyōsube downs the last of his tea and gives the bottom of the cup an expectant, almost disappointing glance.

“You are saying that the King is concerned?” Tōshirō asks, unwilling to have that expression turned towards him. He will not know how to react if the answer is _yes_ – yes, our King is concerned about the threat Kurosaki poses; yes, our King wants something to be done – but Tōshirō has to ask. There is nobody closer to the Soul King than Hyōsube, but while the commander is often considered an extension of their King, he is not always a _reflection_ , and Tōshirō hopes that there is some dissimilarity between them.

(Arguing with Hyōsube is easier than arguing with the King).

(But if he can sway the commander, then maybe…)

“Not so much concerned but…” Hyōsube replies, giving his response a long moment of thought. He frowns, clacking his fingernails against his cup, and his prayer beads clink as he leans back as if pushed away by the force of the question. “… _Curious_.”

Tōshirō _stares_.

“You are _worried_ for our King,” he breathes, forcing his tongue to articulate his newfound understanding in a more elegant way than _what_. The King is _curious_. Not angry. Not threatened. _Curious_.

Tōshirō doesn’t know if that’s better or worse for Kurosaki’s wellbeing, and judging by the deep-set frown on Hyōsube’s face, the elder man is equally confused about the King’s opinion.

A code has cracked – but whose?

(Hyōsube’s or his own?)

“Don’t sound so surprised,” the commander grumbles, shadowy reiatsu moving about him as he rolls his eyes. It sounds like an _admonishment_ , and Tōshirō cannot prevent his eyebrows from shooting up beneath his fringe.

“I can assure you that there isn’t anything to worry about, Hyōsube-dono,” he says calmly, hoping to reassure his commander. Tōshirō can concede – the King’s curiosity is still a reason to be concerned. That Kurosaki has attracted the King’s gaze _does_ make him a liable threat – nobody, after all, should _ever_ gain that much of a God’s attention – but Tōshirō is relieved by the news either way. Hyōsube’s misgivings of Kurosaki he can deal with – the King’s was another matter entirely, and he is glad to have avoided _that_ problem.

“Let me invite Kurosaki-san into the realm,” Tōshirō says, praying that he doesn’t sound _too_ hopeful at the idea. “Give him the chance to prove that he is worthy of our assistance.”

_Let him prove himself to you… and our King._

“Assistance?” Hyōsube echoes, looking amused by the suggestion. He drums great fingers against his stomach, pondering the prospect of granting permission to enter the realm. To Tōshirō’s knowledge, it has been many years since anybody bar the Guard have traversed this land, but if their doors were to open for anybody, surely it would be Ichigo Kurosaki?

“Kirio used a different word,” the bearded shinigami adds.

 _Did she_ , Tōshirō doesn’t say, certain he can fathom what word Hikifune used instead. _What a meddlesome woman_.

(He’ll have to thank her later).

Hyōsube is silent for some time. Tōshirō dares not say any more lest he affects his commander’s decision – regardless of Hyōsube’s irresolution, Kurosaki _does_ need to talk to Nimaiya as soon as possible, and Tōshirō would much prefer to acquire permission to open the realm rather than sneak the human in under his colleagues’ noses.

“Hmm,” Hyōsube says eventually, rubbing his chin so that it wobbles with his indecision. “Perhaps she was correct. Maybe I have misjudged you both. Yes, I suppose bringing the boy here wouldn’t hurt – for a short while, at any least. He will be your responsibility, of course, and I expect there not to be any trouble.”

Tōshirō inclines his head, holding the man to his promise as quickly as possible. “There won’t be.”

“Well,” rumbles Hyōsube, seeming to resign himself to Kurosaki’s impending presence with a heavy sigh. “Kirio _will_ be pleased.”

He pours them both another cup of tea without asking, and Tōshirō takes the cue as a clear indication that there is still more to say. Thankfully, the tea has cooled now, so at least any further discussion will soon pass with the welcome of their drinks.

They each take a sip.

“How are your injuries?” Hyōsube asks. “Have you been to Tenjirō yet?”

“Ah,” Tōshirō says, thrown by the question. Hyōsube smiles as he normally does – the first expression that Tōshirō has understood since beginning this discussion – and the dense atmosphere disperses around them, the shadows of their true purpose slipping back into the cracks of this home.

“No, I have yet to visit Kirinji-dono,” he replies, shaking his head. A dusting of icy reiatsu sprinkles from his hair, Hyorinmaru’s mighty presence receding back into slumber. “But my injuries are well. Hikifune-dono has taken it upon herself to ensure I do not overexert myself.”

He doesn’t mention his time away with Hyorinmaru, but the chance that Hyōsube isn’t aware of that is slim.

“I am pleased,” says Hyōsube; he sounds sincere.

Tōshirō has no idea on how to respond to that, so he says nothing. The other Guard seems not to mind, happy to drink away the quiet with his own thoughts, so Tōshirō does the same. He imagines that Aizen and Kurosaki won’t be coming up in conversation again – not today, at any least, but soon, once plans for Kurosaki’s visit have been made – and Tōshirō almost cannot believe his luck. Hikifune had been right on all accounts – Hyōsube _has_ surprised him, but sitting there with the last of his tea and his commander’s silence before him, Tōshirō wonders if _his_ mistakes are even going to come up in question.

Hyōsube has mentioned nothing about his insubordination and confrontation with Aizen, and that is perhaps most surprising of all.

They say little else while the tea goes cold. At long last, Hyōsube begins to clear away the crockery, dismissing Tōshirō’s attempts at doing the same. Rather, the commanding Guard bids the wintry shinigami farewell, and Tōshirō returns the propriety even as he insists that he knows the way out. Hyōsube looks doubtful – mischievously so – but Tōshirō is sure that the maze will open out for him if the commander were to wish it, and wish it he does.

With one last _thank you_ for the tea, Tōshirō rises up and makes for the door. He gets as far as stepping into the darkened hallway before Hyōsube calls back for him – offhandedly, his voice barely raised into his booming command, but Tōshirō freezes in his tracks all the same.

 “One last thing Hitsugaya-san,” calls the Monk Who Calls the Real Name, grinning widely. There is no mirth in his expression, only a cold hard fierceness and a gaze so empty that it seems to consume everything but the trickle of sweat down the back of Tōshirō’s neck.

A shadow falls across the commander’s twisted cheer as he adds, “Do not be so rash again. Aizen is not to have you. Repeat such foolishness and there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”

Tōshirō swallows, choking on his fear. The darkness in the corridor is a void behind him, a presence at his back and clawing across his skin, bidding him closer. The room in which Hyōsube sits is light, but there are shadows in the corners, ever watching this exchange.

Tōshirō feels very small all of a sudden.

“Yes sir,” he mutters, nodding his head. Snowy hair flops over his face, but it not quite enough to hide his eyes. He bows in the doorway, submitting to the Guard’s stern order, and hushes Hyorinmaru’s protective growl from within the endless winter of their world.

It takes two attempts to shut the door behind him.

His hands are shaking too hard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be sticking with Toshiro in the next chapter - because I still can't seem to judge chapter lengths when I plan these things and this was all meant to be half a chapter at most. Ah well~
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go!


	7. Tōshirō IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys, I hope you don't mind the dangai, 'cause that's what you're getting xD For those of you that don't keep track of my stuff on tumblr, I achieved absolutely _none_ of my planned plot points for this chapter. None of them. Go figure, muse.
> 
> Also: this chapter is slightly more violent than previously, so just a head's up for some snippets of blood/injury.
> 
> Enjoy! /throws canon out of window.

 

News of Kurosaki’s impending arrival in the Royal Realm spreads fast, but when there are only four souls to tell and an infinite number of hell butterflies to relay the message, this isn’t surprising. Tōshirō graces only Hikifune with his presence when announcing the news – the other Guards receive a tumbling, snowflake-sneezing hell butterfly instead, and are required to decode the message from amidst the creature’s terrified chirping, but Tōshirō cares little for this mishap. Rather, he regrets his decorum and his need to thank Hikifune personally the moment the news leaves his mouth – Hikifune _squeals_ and sandwiches his face between her hands, cackling gleefully as she rolls his cheeks about. Unintelligible, womanly words gush into the conversation, but Tōshirō cannot discern anything over the burn of his skin beneath her own, mortification splodging cherry bruises across his face.

“I am going to cook a _feast_!” the chef announces, and with a boisterous pulse of her reiatsu, the pots and pans in her kitchen spring to life, clattering along with her excitement like an orchestra of metal, grease, and fire. “Oooh, I’m so excited! Kurosaki-kun won’t know what’s hit him!”

“That’s for sure,” Tōshirō mumbles, rubbing his stinging cheek.

He would plot to hide Kurosaki from Hikifune, but if avoiding her temper is what he envisions, this probably isn’t the wisest strategy.

Kirinji’s replying message consists of little more than a condescending quip and a rather pointed sigh about the use of his hot springs that Tōshirō immediately ignores – his chest has slotted itself back together, icebergs grinding and melding into one smooth plain of sleet, and not even scars dare to traverse his arctic soul. It would take a deeper wound to inflict everlasting damage, and Tōshirō knows there are only few who could bypass the fortress of his defences and engrave his icy heart with woes.

In contrast to Kirinji’s neutral acceptance, the butterfly that returns from Nimaiya _bombards_ Tōshirō with hyperactivity. It quakes with the unpredictable highs and lows of Nimaiya’s personality, erupting frost and hail across the room as the man’s bellowing voice rings out. Once Nimaiya has had his say, it takes the combined effort of seven other hell butterflies to calm the unfortunate messenger. They clamber around it, clicking and clacking to themselves in a weird semi-hug, semi-sacrificial circle of darkness, until the volcanic spewing of snow ceases and Nimaiya’s influence fades away. Tōshirō feels a little wounded on its behalf, but he dares not say anything (he dares not _laugh_ , more like) lest the butterflies gang up on him instead.

Their altruism is _astonishing_ – and worrying, because when he pulled together the reishi of the Soul Society and breathed his icy reiatsu into his first hell butterfly , he _definitely_ hadn’t planned for that either.

Shutara doesn’t even bother to reply, but for the sake of his butterflies, Tōshirō is glad.

The night before he is due to leave the Royal Realm, he finally finds the words to write to his sister. The letter is short – concise and informative, he would argue, but filled with hopes and well wishes for her health – and secured into an envelope of kidō barriers and protections. _To Momo_ adorns the paper in his tiny script, ink blotched ever so slightly by the shake of his hand – nerves, perhaps, or guilt of a promise long since due – and he blows the first chill of winter across the page to dry the blemish. The detour into the Soul Society to deliver it personally will only take a moment, and the locking mechanism is more for Momo’s entertainment than any real need to guard his thoughts – a master of kidō without a doubt, she will probably crack the code with ease, but Tōshirō hopes the element of mystery will amuse her.

Appeased, he finds his bed on the decking beyond his room, preferring to watch the path of moonlight across the lake than counting the sleepless hours with a candle’s flicker. He rests little that night, enwrapped in a blanket and companied by his thoughts, but he has slept enough over these past weeks. Tōshirō sees no point in laying his head down upon the futon when his mind is abuzz, restlessness dizzying his thoughts into unease. Kurosaki’s company will be strange – and likely taxing for the Royal Realm as a whole – but as he finally drifts into slumber to pass the last of the night, the wintry Guard realises that he is _looking forward_ to what the dawn will bring.

(Fire and gold and the smile of a sun).

(And no more ice and the cold, lonely sadness of one).

 

 

               

The Fifth Division are without their lieutenant as Tōshirō finds, traversing the caged-in corridors with the ghostly presence he defines, an ethereal being beyond mortal imagination and the sights of their sorrow, their mourning, apprehensive lives. He worries for a moment, fears that clouds of storms and rain have filled his head and darkened his gaze to their plight, his sister’s terrible state, and that he has become hopelessly, _willingly_ entrapped in the hurricane of his own concerns, but arriving at Momo’s office proves him wrong. There are two officers there – the third and fourth seats, most likely – and though stress burns sweat across their faces and deadlines splatter midnight-crawling ink across their hands, they laugh together, quietly, and smile as if the weight of the world isn’t strong enough to pull them down.

Momo is okay, Tōshirō realises. And though their hearts are battle-weary and filled with the emptiness of a man who has left them behind, the Fifth Division will be too.

Slipping into the depths of the office as the officers depart is no challenge, reiatsu held back like a breath waiting to expire, but dally in the walls of Momo’s realm – her protection and her reminder – he does not. Rather, the letter finds its temporary home within a drawer filled with other documents and tidy evidence of the care that lingers there. Tōshirō fears not for the message’s discovery, and so with his hands marginally lighter and his heart considerably so, he ducks out of the Fifth Division and wills the wind to carry him across the Seireitei.

Unique in comparison to his colleagues, Tōshirō is the sole Guard capable of governing his own comings-and-goings between the Royal Realm and other distance planes. His hell butterflies ensure his destination, granting him the ability to access the senkaimon and bypass the defences of the dangai, saving him time and effort compared to the Guard’s other means of transportation. The chōkaimon is not their preferred method of travel, but it offers a safe return to the King where the grandeur of the tenchūren does not. The tenchūren, conversely, is over-the-top and _entirely_ unnecessary in Tōshirō’s opinion, although he imagines it would create a lasting impression should it ever thunder through the skies of their enemy.

Yet, the ease at which he can enter the Human World does not change his need for concealment, so Tōshirō scours the edges of the Seireitei for a quiet, unoccupied space to drift away.

And thus, on a hill somewhere behind the Thirteen Division, he finds Rukia Kuchiki yelling into a soul pager. Tōshirō keeps his distance, maintaining the pretence of a private conversation despite the volume of her cursing, and considers searching elsewhere as the officer rants on. Whoever is misfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of her frustration is likely an idiot – he knows little about the Kuchiki beyond that her temper is volatile and her aim is true, but it is enough – and Tōshirō has no need to involve himself.

The soul pager snaps shut with an irritated curse, and Tōshirō prepares to call forth a blizzardy shunpo until Orihime Inoue appears from the other end of the training ground and asks,

“Is Kurosaki-kun alright?”

 _Ah_ , thinks the Guard, snowfall of reiatsu settling back around him as Inoue’s fluttering chime rings out. _That explains it_.

“He won’t be once I’m done with him,” Kuchiki grumbles, pocketing the device, but she attempts a smile at Inoue’s subsequent fluster of worry. “He’s an idiot, but he’ll be fine. You go on ahead to the senkaimon – I’ll get the captain to send a squad to meet you there, okay? Don’t wait for me, just head straight to Karakura. They’ll need you there.”

Hardly seeming appeased by the assurance, Inoue nods. She hesitates for a moment, torn between leaving her friend and dashing to counter whatever trouble Kurosaki has attracted this time, but eventually nods with a firm expression, determination lifting the amber hues of her head to shine in the afternoon sun.

The girls separate, each driven by the duty towards their friends, and Tōshirō finds himself following the _thump-thump-thump_ of Inoue’s footsteps as she races away. Karakura town has ample protectors to guard its borders, so he does not hurry to cross the realm between realities and throw himself into battle. Kurosaki will manage without him, just as he has done for so long, and although Tōshirō cannot _quite_ explain the feeling, something compels him to watch over the human girl rather than immediately jump to Karakura’s aid.

Their destination is the same, he reasons, so he loses nothing by ensuring her swift arrival. Her powers traverse into an otherworldly territory, after all, so she is an invaluable ally on the battlefield, and one that necessitates a close guard. Healers should not paint targets on their back, and though Tōshirō imagines that Inoue would never do so, there is every chance that their opponents will not be so considerate. Their cruelty knows no bounds: attack the weakest, cripple the healers, and watch the soldiers destroy themselves as the battle lingers on. In the eyes of the Arrancar, Inoue is a prime target for this simple strategy.

A five-minute detour is of no concern to him.

(None will ever come to appreciate the significance of this decision).

Preparations to open the senkaimon are still under way when Inoue arrives, and the squad from the Thirteenth have yet to make an appearance. Unconcerned for the delay, Tōshirō glides over to the gate with the drapes of his kimono trailing silence and sleet behind his steps, and promptly scares the human half to death when he clears the last of winter’s groggy awakening from his throat to greet her.

“Guard Hitsugaya!” she squeals, almost tumbling into a bow. A rounded face of freckles and scarlet answers Tōshirō’s welcome, but be it from embarrassment or exhaustion, he cannot discern. Either way, Inoue maintains her usual politeness, and as ever, Tōshirō waves it away.

They have spoken little beyond their initial introduction (“Ishida, Inoue, this is Tōshirō Hitsugaya. Tōshirō, I’d introduce them to you but I’m pretty sure you know who everyone is anyway so… He’s been helping out for a while now, so don’t mind him if he hangs around – _hey_ , don’t look at me like that, I said _hangs_ , not _loiters_ – you _have_ been loitering –!”) but each exchange has been pleasant. Inoue is an easy individual to get along with, and Tōshirō feels comfortable in her company. She is a bubbly, imaginative teenager with a heart of gold, and he is certain that she could become a valued friend in the future.

“I apologise for startling you, Inoue-san,” Tōshirō says, slipping his hands into the gigantic, monstrous mouth of his sleeves so that the fabric seems to swallow him arms and soul. “Rather, I saw that you were intended for Karakura town and hoped that you wouldn’t mind some extra company?”

“O-of course I don’t mind!” the teenager chimes. She smiles at him, glad for his presence in a way that he is sure few people are, but soon returns to her previous posture of worry, tense and small and fiddling with her hands. It is a far cry from her usual cheeriness, but Tōshirō says nothing, unsure if anything he _could_ say would appease the turmoil of her soul.

She is young, but naïve no more. She will have heard it all before.

When the team from the Thirteenth Division arrive – although it is less of a team and more of a _duo_ , two nameless, lower-ranked officers with hesitation for blades and recklessness for tongues – they depart. As the senkaimon opens to permit the dangai and the Seireitei to meet, darkness and light colliding into grey, flickering spots across Tōshirō’s vision, one of the officers lifts his voice to question their “unexpected addition.” Realising that he still habits with secrecy and ensures that his Royal Guard emblem is kept hidden from sight, Tōshirō supposes that the men deserve _some_ credit. Yet, if he _had_ been an enemy, their wariness would have come too late to save them, so the Guard lets Inoue ramble through the introductions as the senkaimon shuts its magnificent gates behind them.

The vast walls of the dangai close in around them: a tunnel and a mouth, oozing purple flesh swallowing them whole. Realising that that safety of the senkaimon is inaccessible due to Inoue’s inability of summoning a hell butterfly, Tōshirō gathers his hands together and rolls his reiatsu into shape, bringing up the snowball of his will to meet his lips. Ice brushes ice as he summons down the world to answer his summon: to obey him, for a moment, and to reach up to the Royal Realm to where his cluster of creations are waiting.

It is likely that their circumstances will confine them to the dangai now that they have committed to this path, but Tōshirō worries not with the protection of his hell butterflies around them. The dangai’s defences will not bother them anymore, and with the Soul Society locked behind them and Karakura locked before, they are unreachable in this empty, time-woven world.

“Come,” he commands, and four wobbling splodges push free from his hands. They tumble about him like shadows fleeing from the sun, disorientated from the reality jump, and one bounces from his hair to Inoue’s, where it tangles a wing and begins to emit tiny, startled noises.

Inoue laughs as she fishes it out, cooing over how _adorable_ it is. The other hell butterflies maintain a strict regimen at the front of their party, although they flutter about with odd, squabbling like movements, closer to a trio of children than a Guard’s careful creation, but Tōshirō cannot bring himself to wonder where he went wrong.

“Don’t encourage it,” he says in a fond manner, watching Inoue and the hell butterfly gush over each other. Inflicting harm upon it would be Inoue’s last thought, so while Tōshirō doesn’t mind what else she gets up to, inflating the butterfly’s ego with swooning and cooing isn’t _really_ what he wants. They’re already spiralling out of control; he doesn’t need them becoming attached to every sixteen year old girl who fusses over them.

“I’m sorry,” Inoue replies, only sounding the slightest bit apologetic. She laughs, waggling a finger at the energetic butterfly, and all Tōshirō can do is roll his eyes because _teenagers, that’s why_.

“Can all of the Guards do this?” Inoue asks then, the interest in her gaze flickering from the hell butterflies to Tōshirō, attempting to solve the enigma of his life.

When she doesn’t elaborate, distracted by the twists and spirals of the puzzle he presents tangling in her mind, Tōshirō says, “You are referring to fashioning the hell butterflies?” to prompt an explanation.

Around them, something sinister and solitary closes in, a predator drawn near on the hunt for broken teenage smiles and sunshine clouded grey, the sunflower merriness of Inoue’s laughter suppressed into fear. The hell butterflies lead the way, the boundless path ingrained into their beings illuminated by the faint glow of the lamps. The group would lose their way if not for the will of the butterflies; even Tōshirō, one who seems not belong in this world, would fall at the mercy of the Kōtotsu should its rampage ever tear through this desolate realm.

The butterflies do not notice, and so, blinded into helplessness by the great, dark walls of the dangai, a world separated from divine ruling and laws, neither does Tōshirō.

“Yes,” says Inoue, nodding vigorously despite the pace that they keep, their eager footfalls racing closer to the battlefield. “I’ve seen them around before, but I never thought to ask where they come from. I just assumed they were kept in one of the divisions…”

“They are, normally,” Tōshirō says, more for the benefit of the two Thirteenth Division officers than Inoue, who both seem to be itching to answer the question with their limited (and frankly incorrect) knowledge of the butterflies. “But as for where they are created, no, only I am capable of commanding them to such a degree. I created them originally, you see, when I was a member of the Tenth Division. I was the third seat back then, and due to the nature of my captain and lieutenant, I didn’t have a large amount of free time, but I had enough that I could explore the limits of reishi manipulation.

“At the time, communication was limited across the Seireitei and almost non-existent between the realms. Soul pagers were still a developing idea – they were too expensive to make, too expensive to maintain, and impractical for use, especially when most shinigami were unaware of the concept of _mobile phones_ – so only a few had been created. Something else was needed, something small, easy to use, and less obviously a communication tool, so I dedicated my time to creating the hell butterflies.”

She seems intrigued, but Tōshirō supposes she may merely be trying to keep her thoughts from the state of her friends, the dark questions of their wellbeing and the fears of their loss; _too late_ , she could still be, and time urges her on.

“So all of them are yours?”

“No, only the blueprint is mine. The ones that belong to the Gotei Thirteen are based on my original design, but I did not make them personally. Those in the Royal Realm, however, do contain some of my reiatsu, and they will favour my command over all others.”

In principle, this is true. Tōshirō is starting to believe that his butterflies won’t listen to anyone, if they feel so inclined. The fact that they _shouldn’t_ be capable of such complicated cognitive processes is not something he desires to discuss with Inoue – or anybody who may put their faith in the spark of his mind and the fire of his tongue, a soul burning cold and older than life, and one worthy of the title, the _Northern Intelligence_.

The butterfly fluttering around Inoue emits a chirpy, clicking noise then. “He sounds happy,” she comments, listening to the creature sing its warbled notes. “Can they feel emotions?”

“Ah,” says Tōshirō, prompting Inoue’s thoughtful expression to lift in surprise. A fringe of silken topaz brushes across her forehead, and in the gentle hue of the light that guides them, her smile is amber starlight having crashed into a sun.

“Well,” Tōshirō reattempts, trying to ignore his companions’ surprise. Even the Thirteenth officers, as silent as they are, seem unbalanced by the awkward stumbling of a Royal Guard. “They’re not _supposed_ to.”

The lamplight wavers, sunlight edges dragged in by the dangai’s dusk. The Guard lifts his head, tracking the source of the breeze – not his own, a winter’s whispering tale, but a draft from the depths of the tunnel, and an impossible one at that. Even the Kōtotsu, a reckoning force as it is, does not disturb the air when it riots through the world; rather, it consumes light and space and smothers reality into distorted coils of time, swallowing up everything and everything that ever could be or has been in its path.

They are safe from the Kōtotsu, but it seems, as the dangai shreds itself before them, blackened, lifeless fangs of a world far away clawing into reach, they are not safe from everything.

The garganta widens into sickening smile, tearing air and sound apart to consume reality with its gaping mouth of toothless gums and boneless jaws. Its monstrous throat is a void, darkness and silence mutated into fear and sin, and from it steps a single figure dressed in white, its lone horn a demonic headpiece against Tōshirō’s halo white.

“A-Arrancar!” one of the officers cries, instantly sliding his zanpakuto from its sheath. His colleague mirrors the desperate motion, as if their skills are any match for the creature strolling towards them, and together they form a barricade before Inoue, a wall of fear, inexperience, and bravery only fools can hope to wield.

 _Morons_ , Tōshirō curses, but he quells his blizzardy wrath into waiting all the same and wonders, as the Arrancar’s – the _Espada’s_ – impassive gaze sweeps across their party, if it is due time for Hyorinmaru to roar.

“Only two officers? What a shame,” the Espada laments, hardly sparing the duo from the Thirteenth a glance before fixing his attention on Tōshirō. Dark hair spills out from beneath his helmet of bone like a monster clawing from the shadows, but his eyes are sharp between the unshorn tangles of his fringe, like jades or emeralds of envy. He seems no more interested to see Tōshirō, but there is a pause in the conversation, a hint of calculation in the Espada’s lonesome stance.

“I have no business with you,” he claims, but while his tone is abnormally flat and characterised by a vacant boredom, the Hollow seems unsure, as if his instincts and orders are conflicting – a soldier’s ingrained wariness versus Aizen’s arrogant disregard.

In the end, the Espada’s gaze turns away, his faultless loyalty to Aizen ensuring his efforts towards their goal.

“Woman,” he says, speaking solely to Inoue now, and the Thirteenth Division officers bristle, be it at the insult towards their charge or the Espada’s continued disregard for them, it cannot be discerned, but what follows is a hurried, _thoughtless_ swish of metal intent cutting through the air and then –

Tōshirō recoils, shielding his gaze as the Espada’s assault _rips_ through the officers’ feeble attack, shredding flesh from flesh and bone from bone, splattering gore across the dangai. A wet, squelching noise follows the descent of two bodies to the ground – two half bodies, a whole mismatched but mirrored in their contorted expressions of pain – and the walls of the dangai seem to thrive, a squirming mass too eager to devour the bloody evidence of the carnage laid before it. Sacrificial, the Thirteenth officers appear, and Inoue’s scream of _no, wait!_ comes too late to stay the Espada’s hand, but early enough, perhaps, to halt the dangai’s despicable feast.

The lamps clatter to the ground, the blood bespatters smothering their flames. For a moment, everything is dark, and then with a cry of _Sōten Kisshun_ ringing out, the only light around them is the glow of Inoue’s heart hastily stitching the gory, smattered remains of somebody else’s back together.

“Your ability to regenerate injuries of such a degree is most impressive,” the Espada comments, unfazed by the wreckage of bones, limbs, and lifetimes scattered about him. Ghostly hands slip back into his pockets, and with a gait of confidence that seems to delude him of Tōshirō’s defensive stance, the Hollow steps forward.

Although she trembles, Inoue levels their foe with a glare. It is such a look of loathing that it eradicates the cheery countenance about her and gives rise to something raw – a danger unrefined, a power trapped within a cage of happiness and young, halcyon days.

In that second, she _hates_.

And so Tōshirō steps between them, guarding the light of her innocence as it dims within her from the monstrous shadow approaching from afar.

(War has no mercy for children).

“Move aside,” comes the Espada’s order, his tone jaded and his footsteps sure. His eyes meet Tōshirō’s only because they must. “I have no desire to waste my time with _shinigami captains_. I have been instructed to bring her back unharmed, but I will… retaliate… should you insist on throwing your life away.”

“Let me assure you,” Tōshirō replies, regarding the Espada coolly. The tempest of his reiatsu howls within his soul, a frost as sharp as lightning dancing across his skin. A waterfall frozen in this moment, a fabric eternally cold, his kimono is the weight of responsibility restricting his body where he stands. Inoue’s unearthly powers glow behind him, a star burning in the cosmos of her will, her desire to protect her friends, and within the constellation of souls that Kurosaki has rotating about him. The light is hot against Tōshirō’s arms, the back of his hands, unreaching for his zanpakuto, but his skin will not warm just as his eyes remain cold in the face of the Espada’s disregard.

“I have no intentions of discarding my life.”

He is one of the King’s men. His life is not his own to discard.

“I see,” says the Hollow, looking no more or no less enthused by his opponent’s determination; an obstacle, is the shinigami, and one he places very little value. “Then –”

“But if I may ask,” the Guard interrupts, partly to deter the Espada’s fixation upon Inoue, and partly to address a suspicion building steadily at the back of his mind: a question to ask, a turning point, perhaps, and an insight into Sōsuke Aizen’s plan. “What is your name and rank, Espada?”

The Hollow hardly takes a moment before replying, ashy expression neither rising nor falling as he gives Tōshirō one final, assessing glance – a conclusion so rapid and grievous in its error, an underestimation, brought on by ignorance and Aizen’s preoccupation.

“It is not necessary to share that information with you.”

“Is it not?” Tōshirō replies, and he would smile if Inoue were not behind him, the reminder of his responsibility burning into his skin as she battles to reverse this gory confrontation. She is quiet, terribly so, but her soul churns with anguish and fuels the heavenly fire of her powers; the light is blinding behind the Guard, reverting back pain and time, and he wonders, briefly, if the icy façade upon his back will melt in its divulging glow.

He will let it, just this once, and maybe cease the secrecy that surrounds him.

(Let the world know he has come).

“Well then, _Espada_ ,” he says, and then, with a voice of lightning summons and worthy of the sky’s unrelenting gales, the Royal Guard demands, head raised into proud command, eyes warning storms and promising rain:

“ ** _Do you know who I am?_** ”

The Espada doesn’t speak, saying _no_ with his eyes and the turn of his lips, an impassive frown tilting down. Rather, one hand of bone and reassessment finds the blade at his waist, considering, _questioning_ , and for the first time – and the last time – his attention truly beholds the wandering tempest before him, a spirit wrapped in the whites of angels, clothed like a dream and safeguarding like a nightmare.

A zanpakuto slides from its sheath. A hand pulls free from the depths of a pocket, calling forth an orb of whirling green reiatsu. The light brightens, enlarging around the tip of the Espada’s finger, and the air about him begins to tremble as the detonating force takes shape.

A cero is a predictable attack, and one easily dodged, but Tōshirō’s sentry compels him to remain firm. Inoue utters something behind him, but her words are lost to the deafening screech of the cero crying out. The attack flares through the tunnel, a second of wildfire rampaging free, and Tōshirō holds out his hand as if to mirror the Espada’s motion, his expression indifferent to the blitz of emerald energy as it scorches toward him.

Green and amber light meet like the hands of lovers reaching out, a gentle touch of longing sighs and infinite finitude. They are two breaths of a moment, an exchange of words unspoken and meaning that will never be, and then they flare apart, torn away by the cold, unmoving hand of fate as the cero slams against Tōshirō’s glacial barricade.

The Espada’s screaming intent ricochets away, an envious assault blazing over the Guard’s frosted countenance. It flares and fades, the last of its blistering grasp crashing against the dangai’s oozing walls. Tōshirō gives it no heed, curling his defence around to meet the swish of the Espada’s zanpakuto; metal and ice collide, hollow claws against a dragon’s fangs, and lightning flashes between them, a blizzard throwing thunder to break them apart.

Fire and electricity crash together. Inoue shrieks, the Espada swings his blade, and in a world beyond their own, a world of similarities strewn within a hurricane of differences (a hurricane, maybe, or merely the flap of a butterfly’s wings), there is a conversation taking place, a whisper of what could have been, a whisper of a _heart_.

Winter explodes into the dangai, Hyorinmaru’s resolution roaring out. Tōshirō lunges forth, footsteps leaving a warrior’s dance in the freshly fallen snow. He wields icebergs in his hands and Antarctica on his tongue, a relentless assault of kidō and hakuda hailing down. The Espada has strength, it is true, and the speed to match many a captain, but even with his zanpakuto at his side, the hollow seems to fight alone, as if loneliness is all he has.

Tōshirō breathes in, and Hyorinmaru breathes out.

They are prepared to exploit such a weakness.

Above them, unnoticed by the whirring cogs of fate as the brawl continues, the four hell butterflies keeping watch over this hazardous realm catch alight, their wings enkindled by the final sparks of the Espada’s thundering cero.

They burn away in seconds.

The frantic warning of the butterflies’ cries is lost to the clash of opponents and the will of a dragon striking cold and fast to fight and _guard_. Aizen has underestimated the soldiers of the Royal Realm and Tōshirō is glad – glad that he is here to thwart the traitor’s plans. Why Aizen desires Inoue’s powers is a question for another time, for when they are safe, when Kurosaki and his friends are reunited, but even Tōshirō, who has seen the world and then some, is awed by her heart’s manifestation.

Truly, it is not a surprise that Aizen is intrigued.

Briefly, as kidō lights the dangai in bursts of multi-coloured flame, and as blood splatters across his robes, dashing his otherworldly perfection with stains of brutality, Tōshirō wonders if his King would ever find Inoue as fascinating as Kurosaki, and he wonders, too, if Kurosaki’s other friends are equally as formidable in their own rights.

“Guard Hitsugaya!” Inoue calls then, drawing the Guard’s attention away; the Espada’s zanpakuto tears through his sleeve, carving a desperate punishment into his arm. The teenager shouts something else, exemplifying Tōshirō’s curse, but the wintry shinigami ignores her for a moment, willing Hyorinmaru’s devastating retribution to buy him the time he needs.

Another cero detonates through the dangai, shaking the foundations of the realm. Tōshirō’s ice swoops down to protect the healer, containing the blast in a fortification of sleet and storms, but the dangai continues to quake even as the combatants step apart to breathe.

Tōshirō wipes blood from his jaw, his tongue counting gaps in his teeth. A lucky strike or two can account for most of his injuries; the blood, conversely, is mostly his opponent’s, a Hollow full of arrogance and certainly paying the price. It has been some time since Tōshirō last partook in such a brawl – for really, there is no other word for this confrontation, bladeless as he is – but the minor scrapes are worth watching the Espada’s fury increase.

This nameless, soulless Espada still feels pride, it seems, although battling a foe that has yet to unsheathe his zanpakuto would test anybody’s patience. Tōshirō supposes that the Espada must consider him _worthy_ , now, but he has decided not to ask for the Hollow’s name or rank again.

(An insult, in the eyes of the Soul Society).

(He cares not. The Royal Guards refuse to waste time with _pleasantries_ ).

“Who are you?” the Espada demands, Tōshirō’s apparent skill unnerving him more than the state of his body, frostbitten and torn as it is. Blood ruins his uniform just as it embellishes his blade, and the lone horn atop his helmet maintains its demonic appearance despite the chips and fiery scrapes. Their fight had been brief, a scuffle when it should have been a duel, but Tōshirō rather imagines that he got his point across well enough, and it is this, more than anything, that prompts him to say;

“I’m nobody important.”

Around them, the walls of the dangai shudder like a living, breathing, consuming organ; but in warning, the world seems to quake, and in fear the ground continues to shake, earth and bone and the remnants of time forgotten smattering together.

Tōshirō stills, impossibly so, and the very chills that he commands seem to freeze great icicles of shock upon his tongue. He glances back to Inoue’s stricken expression, her paleness illuminated by Sōten Kisshun’s chestnut glow, and then searches upwards for their guardians – his fluttering, untameable flock.

Even the Espada has stilled, recognising the inevitability of the danger.

“Ah,” says Tōshirō, not quite managing to articulate _oh dear_.

Then comes a rumbling echo from deep within the realm, a sound like Hyorinmaru’s resounding awakening but worse, thunder and lightning poured into a smog of screeching emptiness and time crumbling away with the earthquake of the Kōtotsu’s arrival. The Kōtotsu is a reckoning force worthy of this desolate realm, and Tōshirō doubts that anything in his arsenal could stay its terrible charge. Even his hell butterflies, guides as they are, are only designed to _bypass_ the defences of the dangai; summoning forth replacements could buy them some time, but would they stop the Kōtotsu now that it has awoken?

Tōshirō cannot take that risk. They must leave, immediately, if they hope to outpace this thunderous threat of death as it looms over them. ( _Death_ , perhaps, is not the correct word, for the Kōtotsu wrecks and the Kōtotsu ruins, but it does not cause pain or death except in the sense of dying alone, far away from a world once known).

(Where they would awaken is anybody’s guess, but far from Kurosaki it would be, and far from those that need them most).

“Inoue-san,” Tōshirō says, reaching for the teenager. His purpose for such a motion is unknown, be it comfort, assurance, or a desperate tug to her feet, but his indecision distracts him from the greater threat. The Kōtotsu is punishment refined into something colossal and foul, but it a predictable, avoidable foe; the Espada, conversely, is a being sharp with a million empty thoughts, and his blade carves through the whirl of Tōshirō’s kimono, shredding icy cloth and idle thoughts in a single, effortless swing.

Tōshirō howls; Hyorinmaru roars. Blood arcs from the tip of the Espada’s elegant blade, hot and thick and splattering scarlet, and the Guard’s bitter reiatsu rises up to meet it, winter’s storm dominating the violent exchange.

There is a _crack_ of lightning and then nothing as the frostbitten battlefield swallows up the Espada’s curse of pain. He crashes to the ground, as pale and lifeless as the snow about him bar the bloody puddle in which he lays, and his eyes are cold – colder than the tundra of Tōshirō’s heart cocooning him to death, but not colder than the beat of his own, wherever it may be. Hail pitter-patters across the icy plain, clattering against the Hollow’s fallen blade, and Tōshirō wheezes, shoving a wad of his kimono into the oozing gash at his side.

Inoue jerks, reaching towards him, and the light of her Sōten Kisshun flickers as it prepares to swallow him whole – pain and misery and all. “I can –”

“There’s no time,” Tōshirō snaps, eyes squinted as he examines her attempt at healing the Thirteenth’s men. Her rush is apparent, pressed for time when her friend and enemy press against each other, exchanging hazardous blows, but the unseated officers are still closer to death than they are to walking from this place alive.

“Are you –?”

“I’m fine, Inoue-san, but thank you,” he replies through gritted teeth, willing Hyorinmaru’s perilous breath to stem the blood-flow from his side; to clot arteries with icebergs and stitch flesh and bone with icicles and sleet. The makeshift healing completed in seconds, hands as cold as snow, as ice, as the great beast whose wings he wields in the sky, slip away from the gaping wound, the skin coloured only by torrent of blood seeping through his robes. Uncaring, Tōshirō wipes his frozen hands down his kimono, streaking handprints of failure into the ethereal invincibility of his clothes.

“Get up, we have to move,” he says, blaming the chunk of ice in his waist for his tone sounding harsher than intended. Inoue doesn’t deserve his anger, but if she seems fazed – and she does, expression as pale as the sickly form of the Espada gushing blood into the snow – it is not by the strictness of his order. “The Kōtotsu is on the way.”

Tōshirō looks back down at the two men – the two officers, the two victims, the two bloodied, gurgling carcasses of people he knows nothing about except that they don’t deserve this, they don’t deserve to rot here in this forsaken, bitter world for a teenager they’ve hardly met, and they don’t deserve his cold consideration and the way he freezes his gaze beyond them, building up the fortifications of his heart to numb the agony of his command.

“Leave them,” he says.

Shakily, Inoue mutters _no_ , and she is stronger in that second than Tōshirō knows he ever could be.

The dangai closes in around them, guiding the Kōtotsu’s approach, but the Guard says no more, kind enough not to voice the words that likely plague Inoue’s mind. If she was a more proficient healer, then yes, maybe she could have saved them, but she is young and untrained and that is _not her fault_ , but Tōshirō doesn’t say that either.

 _Maybe I could have saved them_ , is what he wants to say instead, but doesn’t, unable to bring himself to utter such a truth.

(He knows it isn’t a question of _maybe_ ).

“ _Leave them_ ,” he repeats, not quite shouting but not quite smothering the tremor in his voice, a whisper of fear clogging up his throat and muttering beneath his tongue. Dead or alive, the Espada is not his concern anymore; if the Hollow falls victim to the Kōtotsu, then so be it, but Tōshirō refuses to allow the same to happen to Inoue.

Forehead creased and eyes pleading, the teenager stares up at the Guard from behind her fringe, the gentle strands of amber like the fire in her gaze. “But can’t you –”

“Inoue-san,” Tōshirō says, adding _please don’t_ in an inaudible breath.

“But Kurosaki-kun said –”

The Kōtotsu’s approach is thunder around them now; a noise so deafening that it almost excuses the despairing volume of Tōshirō’s voice:

“Kurosaki was _wrong_. Whatever he told you, he was _wrong_ , Inoue. _I can’t save everybody_ – and at this rate, I won’t be able to save _anybody at_ _all_ –!”

The dangai screams as a single, terrible beam of light punctures through its infinite gloom like an eye mounted atop a creation of retribution and sin. Words fail Tōshirō at the sound; he stops, cursing, hating himself, but Inoue says nothing, eyes shadowed by her fringe despite the everlasting luminosity of her will glowing beside her.

“Your friends need you,” the Guard mutters weakly, hoping to prompt a reaction.

She nods, hands clenched in her lap. The words, _they need you too_ , drift past Tōshirō’s ear, but there is no time to wonder if he imagines her answer. He wrenches her upwards, hating himself a little bit more when the girl stands lifelessly, the light of her Sōten Kisshun fading with the implications of their decision, and pushes her over the gasping bodies of the two men and into a sprint.

She doesn’t cry, but Tōshirō can still hear her weeping.

 

 

 

Mercy forgone for bitter, relentless anger, Hyorinmaru’s ferocity soars free across the battlefield.

 _You could have saved them_ , nobody has dared to utter, but guilt plagues Tōshirō as if he truly had a choice in their escape from the Kōtotsu.

He will have to inform Captain Ukitake of his actions. As a Guard, only the King can question his decisions, but regardless of their differing ranks, Tōshirō is sure that Ukitake will appreciate the formality.

(The apology).

Tōshirō lets the Arrancar flee, but only because he cannot shake the sheer _volume_ of Inoue’s silence from his mind.

Once the last, rippling effects of the garganta has vanished from the sky, and the town is free from Hollow reiatsu and vicious, ruthless eyes, Matsumoto assembles her team at Kisuke Urahara’s shop. Kurosaki tags along, eager to news of his friends’ safety, and Tōshirō follows with a heavy heart, certain that the eccentric shopkeeper will already have questions in mind.

The shinigami from the Gotei Thirteen are battered and bruised, but all are well enough to make the journey across the town. Wounds are licked in defeat, although no lives were lost, but they will find their resolve once again – once Inoue’s abduction attempt is known.

They keep their distance from Tōshirō – even Matsumoto, who offers a smile, and Momo, who mirrors the captain with a watery, exhausted attempt – but he cannot blame them. Hyorinmaru may be sheathed and his storms may be tamed, but lightning dances atop his skin and the air crackles, frostbitten and terrified, with every shunpo step. Sub-zero is his gaze, minus fifteen is his breath, and so he walks apart from the other shinigami, his body a snowstorm refined.

Only Kurosaki braves the whiteout, but with how his blaze is everlasting (and his heart foolhardy and young), this doesn’t come as a surprise. Falling back from Matsumoto’s team, he matches their paces – with some difficulty, the Guard notes despite himself, given their differences in height – and wastes no time in ignoring how his body starts to shiver once in Tōshirō’s arctic presence.

“What the hell happened to Grimmjow?” is the first question from the ginger’s mouth, sounding a little wounded at the blow to his pride.

Unsure if he should feel relieved at how Kurosaki blatantly overlooks his brewing temper, Tōshirō glances at the young man from the corner of his eyes, gauging the true nature of his query. Unlike Urahara and those in Matsumoto’s squad, he seems to have escaped relatively unscathed: some bruises, shrapnel and burns shredding his shihakushō, and a broken rib or two beneath the hitched rise and fall of his chest, but only one particularly bothersome gash at his waist, pouring a patchy stream of blood down his leg. Idly, the Guard notes that they match, but he rather imagines that Kurosaki would not appreciate stitching his wound up with sleet, wildfire incarnate as he is.

Icy eyes lift up to the man’s waiting expression, and there Tōshirō lets his gaze pause briefly at the splodge of freckles across Kurosaki’s nose, honey-dipped stars dotted about his cheeks, before taking in the downward tilt to his mouth and the smear of blood across his skin.

Kurosaki isn’t smiling; it makes him hard to read.

“I misplaced him,” Tōshirō says simply, scarcely restraining himself from snapping, but still speaking with such a cruelty that Kurosaki almost tumbles from his shunpo. Hako Okuri is a high-level sealing spell, so he is sure that the Espada will return – provided, that is, Tōshirō did not send him somewhere unreachable (and a few places come to mind), which may have been the case in the rush of the battle, angry and unwise. He cannot _quite_ recall where he had intended the spell to deposit its captor, yet he doesn’t particularly care either way, and he feels unwilling to explain the details of the bakudō.

Killing Kurosaki’s opponent had not occurred to him. Maybe that makes him _the better person_. Maybe it makes him the fool.

His fellow Guards would not have been so kind as to spare a life.

“Hey,” Kurosaki says then, a tone slow and concerned drifting in between the sharpness of Tōshirō’s thoughts, smothering the edges of his doubts with a soft interruption. “Are you okay? You’re injured. Do you need to see Ino –?”

“No,” Tōshirō says, too fast for it to be interpreted as anything but panic. Scolding himself at the flicker of surprise in Kurosaki’s fire, he soothes the bitter lining to his reiatsu, sighing around the silver edge of his tongue. “No, I will wait. Don’t concern yourself.”

Kurosaki gives him a strange look, as if attempting to decipher the wounded Guard but unable to find the code that cracks the pieces. For once, Tōshirō is glad that ice encases his heart, but he hopes that Kurosaki’s concern will not cause his defences to shatter before they have finished redefining his soul.

“Alright,” says the inferno of a man, dragging his fingers through his matted, fiery hair. He backs off slightly – not in his posture, remaining firmly at Tōshirō’s side despite the chill across his skin, but in his tone of voice, pushing away his warbles of concern. “Alright. Well. It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

“Good,” Tōshirō says, wondering if it is obvious that he is lying through his teeth.

“Cool,” Kurosaki replies, almost flailing around the word.

They say nothing else, footsteps tracking over rooftops and dancing on the sky.

“Um, so,” Kurosaki eventually adds, and then, as if he can’t quite believe what he is saying, his face contorts into the most _incredulous_ expression that Tōshirō has ever seen. The Guard is helpless to thwart a smile at how _ridiculous_ he looks with his eyes crossed, and Kurosaki grins back at him as they both begin to snicker.

Their merriment is short lived. The humble home of Kisuke Urahara approaches below them, already abuzz with teenage reiryoku: Yasutora, Inoue, and Ishida, it seems, although Tōshirō cannot recall encountering the Quincy on the battlefield. Yoruichi’s slender form of fur and shadows awaits their arrival, and Urahara greets her with a happy chime and the rapid _grabby_ motions universal only to pet owners. Yoruichi allows the motion, as she always does, but still manages to level the Royal Guard with an unyielding stare as she spins about in circles.

Matsumoto’s team are ushered into the backroom for medical treatment, and Kurosaki follows only once Urahara gives him a tap with the cane-like sheath of his zanpakuto. They bicker through the front shop, Urahara’s morally inappropriate smile encouraging snaps and snipes from the substitute, but Tōshirō remains at the door until the argument fades away.

Yoruichi yawns – or sighs, it is difficult to tell. A small, pink tongue rolls between a mouthful of fangs and knives.

“How is Inoue-san?” Tōshirō asks, deciding not to prolong the conversation. Inoue’s mellow reiryoku hums from within the shop, a presence of lavender-tinted gold or sunflowers in the dawn, and he is relieved to feel her friends beside her – Yasutora, a hug strong and warm, and Ishida, his sharp angles of light like a bird of prey in the night. Kurosaki soon joins them, and like the sun to their solar system of planets young and bold, his supernova burn takes its place in the centre of the group.

“A little shaken, but unharmed,” Yoruichi replies, a swish of her elegant tail beckoning him to follow. “She hasn’t said much though, so I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter. You encountered an Espada while travelling from the Soul Society?”

“We were forced to use the dangai, rather than the senkaimon,” Tōshirō begins, and as they weave through the shop front and further back into the house, he gives a brief explanation of his battle, placing more emphasis on Aizen’s attempt at abduction and his concern over Inoue’s safety. He doesn’t mention how he left two men and the last scrap of Inoue’s childish, _wonderful_ naivety behind, but there’s no need. Yoruichi has seen the aftermath for herself.

“Do you think he will try again?” she asks, topaz eyes fierce as they approach where their companions have gathered. Conversation is muffled in the next room, but the space is thick with reiryoku: a smog of captain and lieutenant-level reiatsu threatening to thunder.

“Aizen?” Tōshirō prompts, refraining from reaching for the door. Blood-matted hair sweeps over his forehead as he inclines his head, conceding to the possibility. “Perhaps. I was unable to glean the reasoning for his interest in Inoue-san’s abilities, although it is likely to relate to his manufactured Hōgyoku. As for the Espada, I cannot say for certain whether he was in any state to escape the Kōtotsu. After all, they are skilled opponents, and not to be underestimated.”

Yoruichi hums, although the sound contains a purr-like quality in her feline form. She seems neither pleased nor concerned over his assessment, but he is sure that her mind is whirring, thoughts as sharp as the predacious amber of her eyes.

Tōshirō waits. The gash at his side is aching and his head feels too light for one who wields intelligence like storms, but his patience pays off when Yoruichi lifts her chin to say:

“Aizen is attempting to create an Ōken.”

“Hmm,” says Tōshirō, failing to appreciate any connection between the King’s gift and Inoue’s abilities. Granted, he is not as knowledgeable about her capability of rejecting reality as he probably should be, so he makes a note to remedy this in the near future. “Well, yes, I suppose Karakura matches the criteria for the necessary spiritual ground.”

Yoruichi is quiet for a moment, stunned into a blinking, furry blob of darkness by his feet.

“…You took that very calmly,” she eventually replies, ears twitching as she tilts her head, considering his declaration with a cat’s fine intellect. “Wait – you mean to say that the method is _valid_?”

“If Aizen merely desired to create an artefact of great power, then yes, the method is appropriate, but as his goal is to obtain a true Ōken, then no, he will not succeed. Rather, his choice of method reflects his ignorance in the matter, but I suppose he can hardly be blamed for that.”

Only the Guard are privy to the nature of the Ōken. The fact that Aizen has set his sights on Karakura, rather than Tōshirō – the only Royal Guard, and bearer of an Ōken, to endanger himself in the realms beyond the King’s – further exemplifies his misunderstanding of what an Ōken actually _is_.

“I see,” says Yoruichi, although the clarity of what she can ‘see’ is likely limited by her patchy knowledge of the Royal Guard, but wisely, she doesn’t press for details. “That is good to know.”

“Indeed,” Tōshirō says, recognising the end of the conversation in her voice. Wordlessly, he bids the cat to lead the way inside, and Yoruichi does so, paws padding silently amidst the welcoming cries.

 _Crowded_ doesn’t quite do the makeshift infirmary justice. The squad from the Gotei Thirteen fill most of the room, their squabbling loud to mask their concern, bandages and kaidō light abound. Miraculously, Ayasegawa has drifted off to sleep in a corner despite Madarame’s and Abarai’s bickering, but the remainder of the team are wide-awake, bodies battle-alert and hovering on the edge of an adrenaline crash. Tōshirō searches for his sister, relieved to find her talking in low tones to Matsumoto but well, but hesitates before approaching the two women. From the other side of the crowd, Momo smiles at him, albeit a little weakly, and tilts her head to where Kurosaki and his friends are lounging, injuries already wrapped up in bandages. Needing no further prompting, Tōshirō detours to the teenagers’ discussion, his swift approach of moonlit silvers amidst the reaper shadows quickly catching their attention.

“– you imagine if they did? There’d hardly be a contest.”

“The shinigami are too prideful for that, Kurosaki.”

“That’s because the Gotei Thirteen is led by a bunch of – oh, hey Tōshirō.”

“Ah,” Tōshirō says, wondering how vulgar Kurosaki’s slur against the Soul Society had been about to be.  Not that he feels any way inclined to defend them; given the nature of the conversation that he had overheard, the insult would have likely been well deserved. The Central Forty-Six and superior governing bodies are not exactly known for their empathy towards the common foot soldier. “I apologise for –”

“Sshh, sit down, you’re still hurt,” Kurosaki interrupts, grabbing one of Tōshirō’s magnificent sleeves and tugging him into the circle, squawk of complaint about being _hushed_ and all. “Hey, Inoue-san, can you –?”

Sōten Kisshun’s light arches over them, curving from its work on the last of Yasutora's bruises, over Kurosaki, and eventually behind Tōshirō, its heavenly radiance even catching the unharmed Quincy in its beautiful cage. Tōshirō’s vision fizzles orange for a moment, blinded by the sweet, tangerine glow, but once his eyes adjust beyond squinting in the haze, he notices Kurosaki grinning at him.

“Cosy,” says Ishida, managing to sound both entertained and mortified, and Tōshirō can appreciate why.

He will never admit it aloud, but Inoue’s Sōten Kisshun feels remarkably like a hug.

“Thank you, Inoue-san,” he murmurs, feeling quite undeserving of her kindness, and the healer smiles at him from across the circle, rounded features of youth seeming so incredibly _sad_.

Guilt tightens Tōshirō’s chest, aching with the same violet anger as his skin, slashed and cold. An apology rises up his throat, humble words of explanation and regret, but he cannot bring himself to utter them here, surrounded by so many people. He should – he has _disappointed_ Inoue, he knows – but the girl shakes her head and brightens her smile before he can reattempt the whisper, the pallor of her shaken expression warming with colour in Sōten Kisshun’s glow.

“I could heal you faster without that ice,” she says gently, pointing towards the gory hashing of frozen slush and flesh at his waistline. “But it’s okay if you don’t want to remove it – I mean –”

“No, it’s no bother,” Tōshirō replies, easing Hyorinmaru’s treacherous touch from his skin. Pain flares beneath his ribs as the ice melts away, but he perseveres, tugging out clumps of black, clotted sleet with his fingernails.

One of the teenagers emits a quiet, wounded sound, and Tōshirō hastens to complete his task.

Once finished, he wipes his hand on the tatted edge of his robes and asks, “Are you able to mend clothing as well?”

“Of course,” Inoue chimes, and then, as if just to prove her point, part of his kimono begins to stitch itself back together, the blood splattering the fabric slowly peeling away. “Is there anything else I can do…?”

“No, thank you, Inoue-san,” Tōshirō says again, and this time, he smiles.

Neither speak an apology aloud, but _I’m sorry_ is loud in their exchange.

“Although,” the Guard says after a moment, content to allow the girl’s powers ease his pain. It is a far more soothing process than Kirinji’s healing springs to endure, and Tōshirō revels in the warmth as it dances along his skin, wondering idly if his drowsiness is a common side effect. “I have a proposition for you – and you, Kurosaki-san, and I suppose you as well, Ishida-san, Yasutora-san, if you are interested.”

Hyōsube may not be best pleased with the unexpected guests, but sitting in this circle of friends and listening to them laugh and bicker, Tōshirō can’t imagine splitting them apart. Inoue’s powers are fascinating, and definitely worthy of further study; Kurosaki and Yasutora are close, and he has scarcely seen one without the other; and though he knows Uryū Ishida the least, Tōshirō is sure that Hikifune, if nobody else, will appreciate the excitement that a Quincy will undoubtedly bring.

“Tell us later. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. Don’t tell Urahara-san I said that though – he’ll probably make me do laps or something. Slave-driver,” Kurosaki says, waving away the air of trepidation brought on by the Guard’s announcement. The other teenagers concede to his decision without so much as batting an eyelash, and Tōshirō would marvel at their faith if he were not trying to stifle a yawn.

He hums. No harm will come in postponing the invitation for another day, Tōshirō supposes, and with this in mind he finally, _gratefully_ , lets the sharp, storming edges of his reiatsu ebb away, and smothers his apprehensions in the aftermath of the battle, victory and comradeship lulling him into peace.

 

 

 

So now – two worlds are turning on.

 

 

 

 _Oh_ , the stars burn brightly in their hearts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment as you go~
> 
> We'll finally begin dealing with Ichigo's sad bundle of problems in the next chapter (woo!) :D


	8. Tōshirō V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon timeline what canon timeline

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Matsumoto blurts from the other sofa, tugging her finger free from a tangle of strawberry hair. A pained hiss supplements the motion, followed by a reproachful glare, and Tōshirō gradually slows the stirring of his tea at her interruption, raising one, questioning eyebrow at the captain seated opposite.

“Yes, you,” Matsumoto quips, although this does nothing to clarify what she is directing – his justification, or her hair’s grievous grasp. “Orihime-chan I can understand; you’re right, she’ll be safer in the Royal Realm, but why ask Yasutora-san and Ishida-san to accompany you? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think it’s a bad idea, I’m just wondering what interest  _you_  –”

Here she inserts a vague hand wave towards him, clarifying that she uses the pronoun to refer to the unquestionable being beyond Tōshirō’s status, rather than the Guard himself, and Tōshirō emits an understanding hum around his first mouthful of tea.

“– have in them, especially considering that one of them is a  _Quincy_ , of all things. Not that there’s anything wrong with Quincies, of course. The kid’s a bit of a stick in the mud, but that’s hardly a reflection of his abilities – well, okay, I suppose Quincies keep their own traditions, but that wouldn’t –”

“You’re rambling,” Tōshirō interjects, sipping his drink.

“I’m just  _curious_ , that’s all,” Matsumoto stresses, pouting dramatically, and Tōshirō  _uh-huhs_ , recognising her  _curiosity_  as the concern that it actually is.

“Ishida-san will not experience any troubles while guesting in my home, I assure you. And each of Kurosaki’s friends is a remarkable individual in their own right, and I am sure they will all prefer to remain in one another’s company.”

“Oh,” says Matsumoto, sounding somewhat disappointed by his simple reply. She begins to twiddle with her hair again, as if it is the only thing captivating her interest now. “So, basically, you have no idea why you’ve been asked to invite them all?”

“Well,” Tōshirō says, but beyond this brief exclamation, he says nothing.

Matsumoto’s face lights up in an  _instant_.

“Oh my god, they think you’re only bringing Ichigo back! Tōshirō, you scandal!”

“Keep your voice down,” Tōshirō grumbles, inclining his head to where Momo is curled up, slumbering head lolled against the armrest. Quiet surrounds Inoue’s apartment, the house vacant of its typical inhabitant. Yasutora’s home is safeguarding more than its usual hoard tonight. Kurosaki, as Tōshirō was not surprised to learn (although disheartened, it cannot be denied), has often found his bed on Yasutora’s sofa, but tonight the home has opened its doors for Ishida and Inoue as well, the teenagers preferring to stay together with Inoue’s almost-abduction looming over them.

Therefore, only the three shinigami inhabit the teenager’s apartment, but Tōshirō lowers his voice as if the gods themselves can overhear their rebellious gossip.

“And heaven forbid,” he adds, rolling teal eyes over the rim of his teacup. “I admit I was rash, but I wouldn’t quite go as far as  _scandalous_.”

Matsumoto only laughs harder, smothering the sound with her hands. Tōshirō’s stormy glower does little to stop her, but it never has been that effective, and he wonders, briefly, as he puffs his frustrations across the surface of his tea, why he even bothers anymore.

“ _Oh_ , it’s good to see you being yourself again,” Matsumoto says, adding a content, almost dreamy kind of sigh, like the yearning of one’s favourite story slowly drawing to its end.

Tōshirō deepens his scowl, having heard that particular tone enough to know where this conversation is about to go. “I have no idea what you mean,” he grumbles, hoping to stall the womanly  _mushy-feelings_  talk with a voice of warning chills. Hikifune is enough of a chatter-mouth to compensate for his time away from Matsumoto – at least, with only one woman around, Tōshirō could find  _some_  time to himself, but now it seems he has no luck.

“ _Yes_  you do,” the captain replies firmly, leaning forward in her chair. Tōshirō leans back automatically, almost threatened by her knowing titter, and Matsumoto’s eyes of sky seem to gleam. But her laughter never comes; instead, a contemplative silence settles about the room, as if the very walls themselves are bearing down upon the duo in thought, and then Matsumoto tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and says, hushed by the sombre atmosphere;

“I  _know_  you do. Do you remember – do you remember how you were when Captain Shiba – when he died? You didn’t smile anymore. I’d never seen you work so hard; you just shut yourself in the office or spent days on end training for your bankai. You were so  _unhappy_. And then the Royal Guard came and whisked you away, and I –”

“That’s in the past now,” Tōshirō says, interjecting softly. Captain Shiba’s death had been a challenging time for them both, but that wound has had its years to scar, and Tōshirō would rather not expose that scab to the world.

Who knows what would have become of him had the captain not passed away; he had found motivation in his grief, and the hell butterflies had been born from the fires that their captain had left behind, a burning desire to  _never let this happen again_. From the ashes of his presence, his division, their guilt and thoughts of  _we should have been there_ , a communication device so intricate yet simple had taken shape, and the Royal Guard had wasted no time before snatching the sparks of Tōshirō’s mind away.

He had gone willingly, desperately, and perhaps a little selfishly, for when the skies darkened grey and the sun refused to shine on a boy with ice in his eyes and ice in his soul, intelligence was all he had left to take pride in.

( _And so my most northern point you shall be, my star, my Polaris burning bright; a_ Northern Intelligence _above this ever-changing world_ ).

 _I’m sorry_ , Tōshirō doesn’t say, but he means it, just as he cannot bring himself to regret his decision to leave.

“I know,” Matsumoto says with a strange happy-sad type of sigh. “I  _know_. I’m just glad to see you doing well. Ichigo brings out the best in you – and  _don’t_  deny it. I know you’re a little bit socially inept, but even you’re not  _that_  clueless.”

“ _Thank you_ , Matsumoto,” he deadpans, partly in offence, but partly to make her smile.

She does, sniggering happily at his typical glower, and, if ever asked about why he prompted his subsequent utterance of honesty, Tōshirō can only reason that it is her spiritedness that encourages him to grumble,  _and maybe you’re right_ , as he considers pouring more tea.

“ _Maybe_?” Matsumoto cries, incredulous in an instant. “I  _am_  right, thank you – wait, you’re  _admitting_  it?”

“You’ll wake Momo,” Tōshirō replies, attempting to hush her outburst with a tone of scathing cold.

Pointedly, she ignores him, the fire of her delight burning too brightly to be fazed by his arctic demeanour. “Oh god, you  _are_ ,” she exclaims, eyes widening into sky-blue disbelief. “And  _pfft_ , really, she should be awake to hear this anyway. Can I get this in  _writing_? Maybe a love letter?”

The forthright exclamation of ‘love letter’ annihilates Tōshirō’s objecting mumble of  _don’t be ridiculous_.

“ _Matsumoto_!” he blurts instead, startling as if she had slapped him across the face with a very  _concrete_  letter acknowledging his muddle of emotions; tea sloshes over his lap, sizzling through his December robe to burn his thigh as scarlet as his ears.

“What?” Matsumoto replies, laughing as he dabs his kimono to mop away the spillage. “Oh man, don’t tell me you’re sensitive about the ‘L’ word.”

“I’m not sensitive about the ‘L’ word,” Tōshirō mumbles, sounding particularly sensitive as the intensity of his dabbing motions increase. Icy reiatsu crackles across his kimono, freezing the stain into shards of crystal tea. “That’s childish.”

“Say it then,” she coos, as if teaching a puppy to discern between  _good_  and  _bad dog_.

He shoots her an Antarctica look, a gaze hazardous and level, warning of bitter winds to come. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“ _That’s childish_ , you say?”

“ _You_  – Shut up.”

“Wow,” Matsumoto says, popping her lips as his eyes narrow and sleet seems to fall from his tongue. “You know, I think there’s a little bit of frost on my eyebrows now –”

“Forget it,” Tōshirō says, standing abruptly. The last of his tea splashes in the mug as he sets it aside, but he pays no mind to the clattering sound of the cup and saucer skidding across the table.

Matsumoto curses, shrieking laughter rebounding around the room, but she snaps to attention once she realises that he fully intends to leave. Amusement forgone, she throws herself across the sofa with feline grace, tracking his pace across the room with wide, sapphire eyes. “Wait, wait, Tōshirō it’s late, where are you going?”

“For a walk. I am quite capable of defending myself should something occur.”

She is quiet for a long moment, considering the white daphne emblem upon his back with a cerulean gaze, and then rolls over the sofa and into the pillows, stretching like a domestic housecat or a lion bathing in the sun.

“Say hi to Orihime-chan for me!” she says, almost purring the words.

On the sofa that Tōshirō has vacated, Momo turns over in her sleep, curling herself into the extra space as if her slumber is convinced that he will not be returning that night. Their womanly intuitions in agreement, Tōshirō knows that he is helpless to argue against them, so he refrains from inflicting his sub-zero temper upon the cackling captain as he glides out into the evening air, his steps the bitter breeze and a touch of frost amidst the amber autumn sun.

“I am  _not_  going to Yasutora’s,” he mumbles, cursing his friends under his breath and huffing hail out between the downward twist of his lips. Yet, beyond his grumbled resolution to prove Matsumoto wrong, his destination is unknown, so the shinigami lifts a head of silver snow towards the sky, uncurling his dragon-heart reiatsu to search for hollow rages in the night.

The air is still, even beyond his arctic presence, the great ice-ring of his soul.

(That Espada had been still, breath as cold as the emerald of his eyes, the disdain of his tongue, and the white of his mask, an expression hollowed and frozen).

(He lays in snow now, entombed, and Tōshirō wonders if mercy should have stayed his hand, rather than dealing such a crippling blow).

He wanders, a will unconstrained by the duties of the night. The trail of Madarame’s and Ayasegawa’s patrol is bright in the darkness, footsteps of reiatsu weaving between the streets and scattering up into the sky. Tōshirō keeps his distance, unsure of how they would welcome his presence. It has been many years since his time in the Tenth Division, let alone any other, and he doubts they remember how he had been before the hands of the Soul King had bestowed great reverence upon him.

Instead, the Royal Guard treks the outskirts of town, ducking low beneath timber bridges and meandering empty lanes, until, without any conscious deliberation, the roof of Yasutora’s apartment is exactly where he ends up.

“Heavens  _above_ ,” Tōshirō says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Never before has he stepped foot into Yasutora’s home, but the seashore lull of reiryoku from within the building divulges the identities of the occupants, and he takes a moment to appreciate that Inoue’s is tucked safely in the heart.

Only then does he make to turn back, to redeem himself from this blunder, this wayward wandering of his heart, but he stops at the sound of two voices rising up from the porch. Hushed, a conversation is taking place outside the front of Yasutora’s home, and Tōshirō finds himself tuning into the hum of teenage voices before he can decide whether or not to take this opportunity to confront Kurosaki about –

Various matters.

“Forgive me if I’m not terribly  _fond_  of this idea,” Ishida is mumbling, and Tōshirō doesn’t need to see the teenager to know that a nervous wipe of his glasses accentuates his concerns, shirt smearing nothing across the lenses.

“Relax, it’ll be fine,” Kurosaki replies, his smile singing out the words. “Tōshirō knows what he’s doing.”

(To confront Kurosaki about  _various matters_  indeed).

Realising that he definitely should not be eavesdropping on this conversation, Tōshirō leans further out of sight, chewing his lip to smother the smile that threatens to break the glaciers of his complexion.

“He didn’t even know what to do with the straw of a  _juice carton_ ,” Ishida says.

 _Yeah, and?_  says Kurosaki’s tone. “Neither did Rukia,” he points out.

“Right. Is that supposed to reassure me?”

Kurosaki says nothing, but even if he had, the hissed curse from the Quincy would have been enough to silence him.

“Sorry,” Ishida says after a moment, grumbling in his sincerity; Tōshirō can only wonder what expression the substitute is wearing to prompt such a swift reaction. “That was… inappropriate.”

“Nah,” says Kurosaki, although his pause of hesitation proves otherwise; a wounded quiet, the brief crackle of a bonfire in the dark. “I get what you’re saying. But the Royal Guards aren’t our enemies, you know.”

“You’re a shinigami; that’s easy for you to say.”

“What difference does it make?”

“ _Every_  difference. I’m a Quincy, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I haven’t forgotten,” Kurosaki says, but then, no doubt aware of how close they are to speaking of the bloody history that defines his friend, he relents with his argument and adds instead, “Well, you don’t  _have_  to come, if it bothers you that much. Tōshirō won’t say anything. It  _is_  an invitation, not an order, but the fact that he  _has_  invited you speaks for itself, yeah? You’re not going to run into any trouble in the Royal Realm – but if you do –”

“ _Fine_ ,” Ishida sighs, cutting off what is likely to be something too mushy and  _protective_  for his tastes. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Kurosaki laughs. What follows is the resounding  _slap_  of his palm against Ishida’s shoulder and then the squawking of a bruising scuffle between two teenage boys.

“ _Right_ ,” Kurosaki says over the pounding of their footsteps scrabbling to gain the advantage. His voice rings out further away than before, but Tōshirō dares not move until he is sure that the friends have returned inside. “When have I ever listened to warnings?”

“You didn’t seem particularly reluctant when  _Guard Hitsugaya_  was involved,” Ishida shoots back, his snappy reply sounding almost amused – almost ringing with an  _I-know-something-you-don’t_  tone that prompts Tōshirō’s eyebrows to rise. “Sado-san said…”

Yet, whatever the nature of the gossip between Ishida and Yasutora, the rest of Ishida’s sentence is inaudible to Tōshirō’s eavesdropping ears. Instead, all the Guard is able to discern of the utterance is the consequential yelp from Kurosaki as the duo move on, and it is a shout that only serves to kindle his interest in the matter further:

“What’s  _that_  supposed to mean? Wha – hey! I am  _not_  dense –!”

The door clicks shut.

Tōshirō holds his breath for another minute, listening to the prosody of bickering within the home, and hopes the agony of his lungs will quell the rising guilt inside his chest. Aware that he has no excuse for prying into private conversation – guardian in nature and the King’s  _Northern Intelligence_  he may be, his friends have the right to their privacy, even if the matter of their conversation charms the Guard more than he will admit – he decides not to talk to Kurosaki that night. Instead, he finds use for the restless thundering of his heart and slips away into a patrol, the briefest fluttering of frost the only indication that he had ever traversed this way.

 

 

 

“Well,  _you_  look like you didn’t get much sleep last night,” Kurosaki says the following morning, welcoming the Royal Guard to the early hours of daybreak by sticking his head out of one of the windows of Yasutora’s apartment. Hair flops over his face as he peers upwards, a tangle as molten as the rising dawn, a bright, tangerine complexion against the darkened shadows under his eyes, and he smiles at the Guard perched upon the roof.

“Neither do you,” Tōshirō says, considering the heavy slouch to Kurosaki’s posture with a sharp eye. He refrains from mentioning that he had seldom strayed from the apartment all night, and instead lowers himself down to the windowsill, the thick layers of his kimono spilling from the ledge in a cascade of silvery gold.

Kurosaki shrugs and wobbles the toothbrush between his teeth.

“Inoue-san couldn’t sleep. We ended up doing a Disney and Studio Ghibli movie marathon with a shit-tonne of popcorn and stuff. Ishida looked like he was ready to kill something when we put  _Bambi_  on – it was great. I think I ended up a little drunk, but it was worth it to hear Chad singing along to  _Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo_. Don’t tell my dad though; I shouldn’t have been drinking, really.”

The Guard concedes to the request with a tilt of his head, a snowfall hush falling within the conversation as Kurosaki returns to the mechanism of his morning routine.

“ _Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo_?” Tōshirō mutters after a moment, pondering the incredulity of Yasutora singing something so ludicrous. It is not a phrase that he ever expected to hear leave Kurosaki’s mouth, especially in such an earnest tone, and he struggles to repeat it without feeling a little silly. If uttered by anybody else, Tōshirō would reason intoxication as the cause, but Kurosaki seems entirely serious as he puts the neon green toothbrush away.

“It’s  _Cinderella_ ,” the substitute clarifies, as if that explains  _anything_. “It’s one of Yuzu’s favourite films.”

“And you were watching it?”

Kurosaki shrugs again, but this time, he directs a smile at the bathroom mirror, sunshine angles reflecting back towards the Guard. “Three AM makes you do weird things.”

Tōshirō casts his mind to endless hours of the night-patrol and thinks of how his heart had moseyed under the stars, and pointedly does not agree.

Breakfast is a cheerful affair. The teenagers welcome Tōshirō into their groggy routine with ease, shuffling around him in slippers and socks, but he wonders if this is due more to their fixation upon the coffee machine rather than any deliberation towards their unexpected guest. He minds not, content to tuck himself into the corner with a cup of tea and watch Yasutora busy himself with the stove. Offering his assistance does occur to him, but Yasutora stands firm with civility and refuses any help, waving Tōshirō’s willing hands away as if a child is peeking over the kitchen counter, rather than a being that patrols the clouds and wields the tempers of the sky.

It is Ishida who eventually takes advantage of Tōshirō’s demanding etiquettes, and the Guard is glad to be of use until the Quincy motions to the cabinets: “You can make more tea, if you must, Hitsugaya-san. Top cupboard – although you might not be able to...  _ah_.”

Perpetually elegant as he is, Kurosaki snorts rice up his nose.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Tōshirō drawls over the sound of Kurosaki’s hacking, eyeing the distance to the cupboard. “I’m sure I can manage.”

He can’t. Mercifully, Yasutora refrains from commenting as his towering form fetches the tea from beyond the furious grasping of Tōshirō’s hands.

Nobody laughs, but this is debatable with the muffled snickering at the kitchen table.

By the time Yasutora finishes serving breakfast, Tōshirō has established the nature of teabags and instant coffee, refrained from dismantling the electric kettle to ascertain it function, and successfully brewed five cups of tea.

Inoue’s  _thank you_  is soft when she accepts the drink, but it is only when Tōshirō collects the last of the mugs that he recognises the weight of her gratitude.  _Thank you_  is two hefty words, recollecting an event deserving of their burden, and he replies with a voice just as rightfully firm:

“Don’t thank me. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

Sadness settles upon Inoue’s expression; her features twist with the need to argue and her eyes are dark with remembrance, recalling pain and misery and death, and Tōshirō mirrors the frown, his intention not having been to upset her.

 “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t keep thanking him, Inoue,” Kurosaki interjects then, his voice lifting up over their muttering. He speaks with a surprisingly sombre tone that contradicts the way is face contorts into childish distaste, but his intentions become clear when he adds, “‘Cause this tea’s  _awful_.”

Inoue brightens with helpless laughter, and even Yasutora emits a surprised (and somewhat impressed) sort of huffing sound at the remark. Kurosaki is quick to hide a triumphant smile behind his (apparently  _awful_ ) cup of tea – but the motion is not quick enough to escape Tōshirō’s eyes.

“You don’t  _have_  to drink it,” Tōshirō retorts, playing along with a wounded tone. An exasperated roll of his eyes conceals the authenticity of the bemoan, but it seems that Kurosaki notices the genuine hurt, for he laughs a little nervously and takes a pointed sip of his tea.

“ _Whipped,_ ” Ishida mutters, and Kurosaki coughs it all back out again.

Before Tōshirō can enquire for clarification about the phrase ( _who has whipped what_?), Yasutora causes ample distraction by beginning the washing up, much to the dismay of each of his guests. Solid as he is in the face of everything thrown his way, Yasutora once again refuses all of their help, although he does drop a cloth in front of Kurosaki and fixes his spluttering friend with an uninterpretable look.

“Dammit Chad,” the substitute snaps, cursing around the last of his hacking. “And fuck you Ishida, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like that –”

Inoue coos.

Tōshirō dares not ask for an explanation.

Once the household has returned to relative peace – that is, once Kurosaki has ceased glaring daggers into the backs of his friends – Tōshirō prompts the conversation towards the matter at hand.

As he lays out his reasoning, the teenagers are quiet, attentive in a way that is often underappreciated by the stereotypes of their age group; unruly, untameable  adolescents. His plans are underdeveloped, he cannot deny it, and rely on their welcome once they reach the King’s realm, but if they are troubled by the unpredictability of the King and the Royal Guards, then the young friends give no indication as they take the explanation in stride.

Little seems to faze them anymore – their skin is lead, iron, and steel. A mercy, in the eyes of some, but to Tōshirō their armour is a failure and a reminder of his inability to protect  _four children_ , although four children they are not anymore.

“So, provided that this Hyōsube dude leaves us alone,” Kurosaki begins offhandedly, dismissing the Royal Guard’s prestige as he always does, his eyes blinded to the supremacy of rank. “Do you think a week will be long enough for this other guy for sort out – well, you know. My Hollow and all this shit?”

Kurosaki gestures to himself with a grimace – his slouch in the chair, almost weary, and the wounds of sleepless nights on his face; his eyes are bruises and his mouth is dry, a ghostly Sahara skin pulled taunt – and his friends wince at the self-deprecating tone.

Guilt descends upon Tōshirō with a storm, heaving his serenity down into a scowl. Leaving Kurosaki to the mercy of his inner Hollow for so long had been unwise – cruel, in many-a-way, and irresponsible of a man who is supposed to ensure Kurosaki’s safety – but Tōshirō is gratified to see that the teenagers have come together in this difficult time, rather than diverge to struggle in solitary.

“Nimaiya-dono created the asauchi; he is a master in dealing with matters of the soul’s presentation, I assure you,” he says, hoping that the reassurance is enough. It is the least he can do now, when he should have done more. “I do believe that he will be able to point you in the right direction, if not govern a solution for your zanpakuto’s silence himself. He is an eccentric individual, but he will not turn you away should you need his assistance.”

Unease twists into Kurosaki’s expression and, for a moment, his incessant burn of reiatsu is incandescent about him, almost angelic – or demonic – in its glow. “As long as he’s not like that  _Hirako_  guy –”

“Shinji Hirako has been in contact with you?” Tōshirō blurts, the question rushing out in a single, frosty breath.

“He is unsettling,” Yasutora says, verbalising the cringe that passes across Kurosaki’s face. “He proclaims that he belongs to a group called the  _Visored_ , and that Ichigo and he are the same.”

“He’s a stalker,” Inoue chimes in with her characteristic cheer, and Ishida snorts beside her.

“He’s got a Hollow,” Kurosaki adds. “You know him?”

“I know  _of_  him,” Tōshirō explains, taking a moment to gather his knowledge on the ex-Fifth Division captain. “He belonged to the Seireitei long before I entered the Shino Academy. He, and the others individuals that I can only assume make up the  _Visored_ , underwent a very primal version of hollowification many years ago, and it is a time in the Soul Society’s history that few know much about – a stain, merely hearsay now. So yes, I suppose his claims are accurate.”

“So you think I  _should_  have joined them?”

Tōshirō blinks, surprised by the harshness of Kurosaki’s tone, and glances between the four friends, considering their varying expressions of agitation.

 _Would you have asked us to associate with them_ , their eyes demand.

“I’m only here to guide you,” he says gently, abruptly reminded of how  _young_  they are. “The  _Visored_  are not friends of Sōsuke Aizen – in fact, Aizen is the very reason that they were cast out from the Soul Society – but if you do not wish to associate with them, then I will not ask you otherwise. You should trust your instincts, if nothing else. And trust your friends.”

 Tōshirō gestures across the table, prompting Kurosaki’s gaze to fall upon each of his friends. In turn, the other teenagers seem to gather like planets in orbit of a star, iridescence of reiatsu coming together where their bodies cannot, the tabletop obstructing the reach of flesh. Power rolls together, as if the elements themselves are conversing in the after-breath of Tōshirō’s storm, and he is awed, in that instance, as four spirits share a moment entirely of their own.

Yasutora nods. Ishida concedes with little more than a huff and a roll of his eyes. Inoue seems to shine.

“Yeah,” Kurosaki says, gracing the group with a smile of  _brilliance_. “Yeah, alright. I can do that.”

Tōshirō ducks his head, willing his snowfall soul not to interrupt with its winter wails. He feels as if he is privy to a moment in which only the gods should tread, but he cannot explain why he feels this way, just as he never could hope to explain with a tongue weighed with fault and a language unable to weave such wondrous words.

He can only imagine that this privilege befalls the King with every changing of the Guard.

“Are we leaving today, then?” Inoue asks the table at large, her cheerful tone encouraging the lift of Tōshirō’s head.

“Don’t see why not,” Kurosaki says before the Guard can offer a response, his leadership de facto and never once questioned by the majority. “What else are we doing?”

“What time should we meet you, Hitsugaya-san?” Yasutora asks in a grumble, causing Ishida’s mutter of  _classwork perhaps?_  to pass unnoticed.

Tōshirō glances at the clock on the wall, and then scans his gaze across the four teenagers, noting their various stages of undress.

“We could leave immediately, if you so desired?” he says, and though his tone rises at the end in question, there is a sudden pandemonium of movement in the kitchen as the friends scramble about to pack their bags. He takes their sudden departure as a  _yes_ , a  _maybe_ , and a particularly teenage  _challenge accepted_  that he is eighty years too old to understand, and watches, dazzled, as they thunder down the apartment halls in search of socks and shirts.

Against all odds, the  _thunck_  of Yasutora’s front door signifies their departure ten minutes later, and Tōshirō would be impressed by their efficiency were he not still flabbergast by the superhuman,  _teenage_  ability to throw together a bag of clothes and consider that  _packed_.

“What are we going to say to Arisawa and those idiots you all hang out with?” Ishida asks, drawing Kurosaki’s attention from where he is firing off commands to his mod soul down the phone. “And your family, Kurosaki?”

Of the four, Ishida has packed the lightest, scarcely carrying more than his prized Quincy equipment, and though he has donned a simple outfit of skinny jeans and a jumper, Tōshirō is sure that the sheer angles and muted blues of his Quincy uniform will return once they traverse into the Royal Realm.

(Hikifune is going to be  _delighted_ ).

“Hey, you hang out with them too,” Kurosaki replies, covering the mobile to halt Kon’s breathless rampage so that he can glower at the Quincy.

“Granted. But you haven’t denied that they’re idiots,” Ishida remarks.

“Well – Keigo just takes some getting used to –”

“He makes a valid point. We have already missed a lot of class,” Yasutora interrupts, knocking the snappish conversation back to Ishida’s original question. Shoving his keys into his pocket, he heaves up a colossal backpack onto a shoulder, seeming more prepared for a mountainous hike than a short visit to the Royal Realm.  _Taking no chances_  comes to mind, and considering the imminent variability of their welcome, Tōshirō cannot blame them.

Tapping the screen of her mobile with a nervous hand, Inoue emits a little sigh. “I’ll… think of something,” she replies, sweeping the amber threads of her hair across her crease of her forehead.

“Kon’ll handle my family,” Kurosaki says, confident in the mod soul’s ability despite how he had glowered and sniped down the phone. “Won’t you, Kon? No funny stuff with either of my sisters. My dad’s fair game though.”

Whatever the mod soul’s reply is, it makes Kurosaki crack a smile. Hanging up, he pockets the mobile, and then pushes a hand through the autumn tangles of his hair as if to brush the storm of melancholy away. “Class’ll just have to wait. I’d rather we stop Aizen any day.”

“It’s a shame we can’t be in two places at once,” Inoue adds without her usual chime, busy tapping away a lie into her phone. “Maybe we should ask Tatsuki-chan to collect assignments for us…?”

A collection sigh of consideration rings out, the four friends uninspired by the idea.

“If I may,” Tōshirō begins, his soft-spoken contribution drawing their attention. “The primary function of my hell butterflies is to gather information. If you could spare me a copy of your timetables, I’m sure I could assist with the matter.”

Kurosaki is not the only one to lose his eyebrows beneath his fringe.

“Don’t your hell butterflies have better things to be doing than listening in on our classes?” he asks.

 _Sly_  is not a word Tōshirō would often associate with himself, but there is no better description for his smile. He is not  _really_  abusing the powers that the King bestowed; knowledge is knowledge, and he informs the teenagers of such, clarifying that he has a sufficient number of hell butterflies to continue fulfilling their other duties. “You should value your educations. I do not wish to take your opportunities away from you. It is of no bother.”

The friends glance at each other, a conversation occurring right before Tōshirō’s eyes, and then Kurosaki shrugs, his decision representing the opinions of them all:

“Alright then, let’s go.”

 

 

 

As the only Guard to come and go as he pleases – his mind seeking always, searching for knowledge unrestrained by the boundaries of their world – Tōshirō is not above bypassing the kingdoms of his colleagues to ensure their safe arrival in the Royal Realm. Little escapes Hyōsube’s ever-watchful eyes for shadows fulfil his guard, the undying movements of the night, and all creatures must cast a shadow to mark their path across the canvas of the world. Therefore, Tōshirō is certain that his commander is aware of their party, just as he is certain that the Soul King watches Kurosaki’s arrival with eyes unwavering from the celestial question that the teenager’s presence brings forth.

 At the most northern-point of this realm, the engineering of Tōshirō’s soul is laid bare, and though he has invited four guests to make their home amongst his haven, he hesitates before unravelling the directionless forest, unsure of how his creation will welcome such unfamiliar souls. Incomparable to the otherworldly ways of the Guards but remarkable in their own right, humans are resilient, ever-changing beings, and though they are small in the eyes of the King, they are gigantic to the thousand eyes of the butterflies that adorn Tōshirō’s home.

“I should warn you,” he says, deciding it best to announce his concerns as he leads the group to the centre of his home, the labyrinth of winding, empty spaces. “My hell butterflies not to always take kindly to guests – and recently more so than ever, for reasons that I still cannot explain. They may be wary, but please pay them no mind.”

His warning is met with varying degrees of,  _sure whatever_ , although Inoue seems enchanted at the prospect of a thousand hell butterflies; Tōshirō casts his mind back to the last time she had encountered his delicate creations and remembers not to worry about her.

When the last of the wood steps aside, great trunks parting ways and overseeing branches bowing in their eternal guard, hush falls about the travellers, breaths catching in the frigid air. Frost stretches across the expanse of the clearing; the remnants of Hyorinmaru’s touch still lingering at the heart of this home. Snow lays thick atop the lake as if the crystal surface reflects back a cloud endless in the sky, and the path up to the temple is buried before them – but then, all paths through this kingdom are.

Soundless, Tōshirō glides up to his home, the magnificent trail of his kimono concealing the gentle impressions of his steps through the snow. Behind him, the teenagers follow with gaits of crackles and crunches – Kurosaki, especially, is loud in the wintry land, and the snow parts for him as if he walks with steps of fire, a large and burning stride trailblazing Tōshirō’s sway.

Their arrival is quiet, but their welcome is pandemonium.

_He’s HOME! Look! LOOK! HE’S HOME. YOU’RE HOME! HE’S COME BACK!_

“I have been away for  _no more_  than twenty-four hours,” Tōshirō grumbles, resigning himself to the smothering from his butterflies’ frantic greeting. Upon the rooftop, they shimmy in their hundreds as if waking from a winter hibernation, shaking snowflakes from their wings to reveal their metaphoric mass of Tōshirō’s mind. The fastest swoop towards him, bombing him with affection, scrabbling across his kimono and fighting amongst his hair, and the noise they emit echoes around the clearing like a thunderclap in the distance, a storm welcoming him home.

But then, as one, the butterflies forgo their merry chirpings to fix a thousand beady eyes upon the guests, and though Tōshirō can see little beyond the dusky flock of butterflies that surrounds him, he hears the teenagers’ laughter quieten with fear.

“Err, Kurosaki…” Ishida begins to say, looking towards the flabbergast substitute as if he has any means of preventing their inevitable demise via butterfly.

Since Kurosaki does not, there is nothing to be done as the hell butterflies  _crash_  into the four teenagers, squabbling amongst themselves to be the first to discern what  _strange people_  Tōshirō has brought into their domain.

Inoue is the only one who laughs, and the hell butterflies adore her for it, tumbling over themselves to be the cause of her enchanted squealing.

Conversely, the boys seem  _quite_  gratified once the opportunity to flee inside arises, and although Tōshirō can empathise with their disgruntled expressions as they shake off any lingering butterflies, he is helpless not to smile in the face of their obvious unease. However, pity eventually prompts him to reinstall propriety back into his creations, and he ushers them out of the front door with an arctic gale and a biting click of his tongue.

“ _Shoo_.”

Shivering in the whirl of his will, the hell butterflies flutter away, leaving a dusting of silver reiatsu behind. Feeling surprisingly guilty – and doesn’t  _that_  say a lot about the butterflies’ psychological capabilities – Tōshirō decides not to lock the windows as well. Given his temper, he hopes that the hell butterflies will avoid the house for a while – or, at any least, refrain from barraging their guests once they realise that they haven’t been permanently locked outside.

“Are they always so… excitable?” Yasutora asks, brushing the silver scatterings from his hair.

“ _Clingy_ , you mean. I think one of them went down my shirt,” Kurosaki amends. He shakes his head as he tugs at the collar of his top, eyeing the fabric with trepidation. “The ones at Soul Society aren’t like that. What makes them different?”

“I didn’t make the ones at Soul Society,” Tōshirō says, but beyond that, he has nothing concrete to offer. Instead, he reiterates the explanation he gave Inoue as he leads the party to where they will be sleeping, hoping that their previous willingness to camp together in Yasutora’s home will extend to their stay in the Royal Realm. Although grand, the prospect of guests had not been included in the design of his home, so it seems that a visit to the Great Weave Guard will be necessary for the teenagers’ coming stay.

Drifting into the kitchen once the friends are content to unpack in their temporary lodgings, Tōshirō sets about preparing some tea. Thankfully, the tea set is more accessible than in Yasutora’s home, so he has no difficulty in busying himself with cups and saucers to quell the shaking unrest of his hands. A long week is ahead of them – ahead of all of them, but likely looming uneasy over Kurosaki’s mind – and it is Tōshirō’s responsibility as a host to ensure the teenagers’ wellbeing. With any luck, the days will roll into one another like waves across this isolated land, and his fellow Guards will welcome the changing tide. The Royal Realm seems a land undisturbed by time, and though the seasons move on and the days wane into darkness, very little ever seems to change.

Perhaps Kurosaki and his friends are exactly what they need.

Optimistic about his impending encounters with Shutara and Nimaiya – hopefully, if he has any say, in that order – Tōshirō removes the teapot from the stove and sets it aside to cool a while, restraining himself from merely chilling it as is commonplace, with an impatient – misused – dragon’s breath. Instead, he takes the time to arrange the cups on the least dusty tray to be found, and then once appeased by the unnecessary embellishment, quite promptly knocks everything over as a bloodcurdling scream terrorises the peaceful lull of the afternoon.

Crockery clanging around him and Hyorinmaru’s great wingspan urging the storms to hasten their approach, Tōshirō  _thunders_  down the hall. Prepared to slaughter anything that would  _dare_  to invade his home and give rise to such a sound of terror, the Guard enwraps his skin in any icy armour and hurtles into the teenagers’ room, only to discover the grinning plumpness of Hikifune’s face pressed up against one of the windows with all her merriment and glee.

“Oooh, Tōshirō-kun, there you are!” Hikifune coos from outside, sing-songing with enough enthusiasm to be audible through the glass. Exemplifying a predator of monstrous intent, no doubt, she almost smears her black lipstick against the windowpane with a smile, hair of plum-curls bouncing as she laughs at the stark horror of Kurosaki’s expression. “I was just saying ‘hello’ to Ichigo-kun here! And these all must be Ichigo-kun’s friends! How wonderful. One of them is even a  _Quincy_.”

Though the teen remains clad in a nondescript shirt and jeans, rather than the blazing whites of his uniform, the electric blue of Ishida’s bow is a rather helping indication of his identity.

“How daring,” Hikifune chimes, unfazed by the lightning-crackle weapon aimed towards her. “Tōshirō-kun, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Heavens above,” Tōshirō sighs, weaving through the room of dumbstruck teenagers. After pausing briefly to offer Kurosaki a hand back onto his feet, and though gratified by Ishida’s rapid defence, he gestures for the Quincy to lower his weapon as he slides open the door.

“If you are going to shoot  _any_  of my colleagues, Ishida-san, I would rather you avoid targeting this one. This is Kirio Hikifune, and though she makes a habit of inviting herself into my home, I suppose she is the most welcome of the lot.”

To his credit, Ishida does not seem embarrassed by his trigger-happy response, but then, in this world of betrayal and war, Tōshirō would never mock him for it.

“What did you say, Tōshirō-kun?” Hikifune asks as she ambles inside. “I hope you haven’t been spreading lies about me.”

“Of course not, Hikifune-dono. I was merely offering introductions. Over by the door are Orihime Inoue and Sado Yasutora. The one you frightened is Ichigo Kurosaki – and yes, the Quincy is Uryū Ishida. Ishida-san, would you mind…?”

This time, Ishida dispels his weapon, looking no more pleased in the afterglow of his power, and then instantly seems to regret obeying the request when Hikifune rushes forward and sweeps him up into a hug.

“Welcome to the Royal Realm!” she bellows, crushing bones and splitting eardrums, snubbing Ishida’s squawk of protest with a smile. She frees him after a second, cackling joyfully, and then rounds on the other teenagers and cages them in her grasp. “I’m sure you’re going to have a great time here! If you need anything, don’t be afraid to give little ol’ me a shout!”

Somebody – Kurosaki, most likely, and Tōshirō almost reaches forward to snatch him away from Hikifune’s hug – squeals.

Instead, the wintry Guard coughs, hoping to draw his colleague’s attention from how she is smothering the teens.

“Hikifu –”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me  _Kirio_?” she interrupts with a smack of her lips of blackberry and sin.

“Ah.” Tōshirō opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He won’t verbally admit to being intimidated by her happy,  _I-could-serve-you-with-soy-sauce_  smile, but the way he draws the silver pleats of his kimono closer and slides his hands up the sleeves is evidence enough. “Forgive me, Kirio-dono, but they’re turning purple.”

“Pardon?”

“My guests –  _the_  guests. They’re turning purple. Please, could you –?”

With an  _oh_ of surprise (as if she  _really_  wasn’t aware), she lets the teenagers go, and they seem to cascade into a gloopy puddle of  _ohmygod_ s on the floor.

Hikifune looks quite pleased with herself.

Tōshirō wonders if returning to the kitchen and drowning himself in the teapot would be the socially acceptable response to this ever-mounting catastrophe.

 

 

 

Hikifune stays for tea. Unruly – and Tōshirō is helpless to stop her – she charms her way into every conversation, wearing down the teenagers’ hesitation with laughter and jokes abound. Inoue seems to shine in the woman’s presence, rambling away about mismatched this-and-thats and cooing over untold, girlish secrets, and the three boys seem happy to leave them be, partaking in the conversation with nothing more than the occasional apprehensive glance.

Tōshirō is oblivious to cause of their growing dread until he overhears Kurosaki and Ishida muttering together, their heads ducked down as if to hide from Hikifune’s joyous gaze.

“Tell me they’re not comparing recipes,” Kurosaki says, and though his voice is but a whisper across the table, his lament rings loud with the bemoaning depression of his complexion’s frown.

“I think they are,” Ishida replies, stoic as always, but Kurosaki’s bewail compensates for the Quincy’s impassable nature. Drawn by the sound, Inoue turns towards her friends, forcing the two teenagers to offer hasty assurances before deeming it safe enough to return to conversation:

“Hikifune-san seems to be quite knowledgeable,” Ishida adds, rearranging his glasses as if to amplify his perceptions of the Guard in question. “Maybe she’s a chef?”

“A  _chef_ ,” the other croaks, terror catching in his throat. “And she’s listening to  _Inoue_.”

Tōshirō cannot be sure if he imagines the fearful shivers that ripple down their spines or not. He turns to address Yasutora, beside him, and request clarification into the matter, but spying the equally unnerved expression beneath the shadow of the teen’s shaggy hair, Tōshirō decides to leave the matter be.

Conversation continues, disturbed only by subsequent servings of tea, and cocooned within the circle of tattling reiryoku, each spiritual flame breathing with a colour entirely of their own definition, Tōshirō feels at ease. Although content to remain separate from the discussion for the most part, he is hardly disheartened when the topics begin to require his input: talk of the Royal Guards and life in the King’s realm necessitate his participation, and the teenagers are eager to learn what they can, even though there are many subjects in which Tōshirō cannot divulge.

It is during a comparison of the healing springs fashioned by Kirinji and Urahara that Inoue reveals the state of her Shun Shun Rikka, confessing that she has been unable to restore Tsubaki’s body with her own power, and asking, timidly, if a Royal Guard can do what she cannot.

“Tenjirō might be able to do something,” Hikifune says, pondering the disintegrated state of the spirit as she turns the hairclip over in her grasp. Two delicate petals are missing, and Inoue seems to waver as Hikifune inspects the pin, carefully running a chef’s precise hand along the little opal flower.

“Really?” Inoue says, her breath short and light with hope.

“There’s no harm in asking, is there?” Hikifune replies, passing the hairclip back. “We can go over there right now, if Tōshirō-kun doesn’t have anything else in mind for this afternoon?”

“I need to speak to Shutara-dono concerning bedding for you all,” Tōshirō says, sweeping his gaze across the four teenagers. “But you are free to do as you wish for this evening, provided that you do not disturb the other Guards with your wandering. Come tomorrow, I will introduce you to my colleagues – you especially, Kurosaki, will need to meet Nimaiya-dono as soon as possible – but for now, take the time to settle in and learn your way around my home.”

The teenagers concede, happy with the arrangements. Only Hikifune yearns to interject, her smile promising mayhem as Tōshirō rolls his eyes towards her,  _what is it?_  storming in his gaze.

“You  _know_  that asking Senjumaru for bedding is going to end up this lot acquiring completely new wardrobes,” she says, waggling a finger at him in a reprimanding manner. “She’s not going to let them get away from her – you may as well get it over and done with now to avoid all of the hassle. Why don’t you leave the boys with Senjumaru while I take Orihime-chan to Tenjirō?”

Tōshirō groans. Senjumaru Shutara is a persuasive individual, renowned for her straightforward and forceful approach to her work and characterised by a focus for her mission that seconds only Hyōsube. She weaves words like her silks, but still manages to achieve a terrifying bluntness that can threaten any man, and not for the first time, Tōshirō wonders how he has come to identify with such a group of irrefutable individuals.

“‘Leave us’?” Ishida repeats, dipping his eyebrows beneath the solid frame of his glasses. He glances between the Hikifune and Tōshirō, posture tense in uncertainty, as if unable to identify which Guard offers the more sensible advice. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Understanding of the depth of Hikifune’s suggestion, Tōshirō stays quiet in face of the question. Truthfully, he is perfectly willing to leave the teenagers in Shutara’s capable hands, assured that she would never allow any harm to befall her guests. Rather, it is his reluctance to use the opportunity to seek out Hyōsube’s disapproval that Ishida has likely perceived.

“Of course it is,” Hikifune says. “And anyway, you’ve already proven that you don’t have any problems with shooting at us, so why are you worried?”

Ishida opens his mouth, blurts “But I –”, and then closes it again, glowering at the slur towards his restraint.

Kurosaki and Inoue have to bit their lips to muffle the sound of their snickering.

“We will be fine,” Yasutora says in his soothing rumble, prompting the Quincy to surrender with a sigh.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, and though he inflicts his glare upon nobody in particular, the vexation in his tone still seems to target Kurosaki directly, perhaps accustomed to their antagonist relationship. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

 

 

“I had predicted that my services would be required,” is the greeting Shutara offers as she invites the party into her home, her six mechanical limbs beckoning the teenagers closer like a golden arachnid spinning its treacherous web. “Although it seems you have brought some unexpected guests into this realm. I cannot say that I am surprised.”

Hoping that her poise will extend to Hyōsube’s frame of mind, Tōshirō introduces the three teenagers, pointedly ignoring Kurosaki’s obvious distress when the spindly arms lure him further into the Great Weave Guard’s woven lair.

“I will fashion them the appropriate garments,” Shutara says, considering Kurosaki with a tilt of her head. As she does, the crescent moon ornament adorning the midnight hues of her hair arcs with its extravagance, as if rising from the horizon to toil throughout the night. “I will summon you once I have collected all of the necessary measurements.”

Ever so slightly, Tōshirō bows, offering his thanks. Then, pooling his reiatsu in preparation for a shunpo, he turns a figure of elegant silver cloth away from Shutara’s city of ribbons and threads, only to pause at the sound of Kurosaki calling his name.

“Heya, Tōshirō? You remember what I said – about beating anybody up?”

Tōshirō does, turning back to where Shutara is dragging Yasutora and Ishida away. Kurosaki, conversely, has torn free from the Guard’s tarantula grasp, and from the top of the steps he looks down at Tōshirō, posture firm although slouched, hands confident and battle-worn slipped into the pockets of his jeans. Though without his shihakushō or Zangetsu’s overwhelming presence, Kurosaki stands tall in that moment, seeming to bear the weight of a captain and carry it comfortably in the bonfire smokes of his reiatsu.

“Well,” he says, nodding to add reassurance – to himself and Tōshirō both. “That still applies.”

Then he follows the beckon of Shutara’s arms, and disappears inside.

Tōshirō’s smile is fond. “Perceptive twit,” he mutters with a shake of his head. Snowflakes scatter from the tips of his hair, reiatsu tumbling down, and in the next breath of air, he is gone, the winter gales storming far away.

Hyōsube is not waiting upon the steps of his home. In fact, the great commander appears not to be within his sanctuary at all, so Tōshirō bypasses the lonesome dojo to where he can feel the densest manifestation of the nightmarish shadows of Hyōsube’s reiatsu, and arrives far behind the building in the open, reishi-heavy air.

Keeping out of reach of his commander’s pool of reiatsu – the murky ink splatter on the grass, a shadow churning beneath Hyōsube’s cumbersome form – Tōshirō sits. Watchful of the silver-pleated edges of his kimono (his reiatsu, and even his very skin) as he always is in Hyōsube’s devastating presence, Tōshirō does not initiate the conversation, but rather, takes a moment to look out beyond the reaches of Hyōsube’s city. Ostentatious yet refined – contradictory, yet consistent, as characterises the life of the King, the palace seems closest from this point, Hyōsube’s domain offering a view that no other dares to provide. Tōshirō has never stepped foot within the palace walls, but he is sure that if any have, the man beside him would be the first of very few.

“I see that you have extended my invitation to Kurosaki’s friends,” Hyōsube begins, sounding neither angry nor amused by this fact, and Tōshirō inclines his head, unable to deny such an obvious truth.

Hyōsube rolls his eyes at the acquiescence, and though Tōshirō would never describe the motion as  _fond_ , there is something almost  _understanding_  in the commander’s gaze. Thinking back to Shutara’s lack of surprise and hating that Hyōsube’s reaction unsettles him in a way that he cannot explain –  _am I truly so predictable?_  – Tōshirō has to clench his teeth to prevent a noise of bewilderment from slipping out.

“I would like to meet the boy,” Hyōsube states, and though it seems a request, the gravity of his tone leaves no room for argument. “And the girl.”

Tōshirō doesn’t visibly startle, but he is unable to mask his surprise as he asks, “Inoue-san? What interest do you have in her?”

“The King is intrigued by her powers. She has potential.”

Despite understanding little about the complexities of Inoue’s Shun Shun Rikka, Tōshirō knows enough to appreciate that it is a power to be revered – and one that dips into a realm of possibilities that only gods can touch. Therefore, he deems it wise to be wary of Hyōsube’s announcement, just as he feels it necessary to seek clarification into their King’s curious mind:

“Potential for what?”

Only now does Hyōsube seem entertained by Tōshirō’s inquisitive nature: the defiance he expresses with the mere fathoming of his thoughts. “Many things,” says the Monk Who Calls the Real Name, glancing at the wintry Guard from the corners of his eyes. “As do the others – the sentinel boy and the Quincy – but it is her that interests me the most.”

He offers nothing further, and Tōshirō does not ask. Rather, he fights to hide the disapproval from his expression, certain that there is nothing he can do to change his commander’s mind, especially when the shadows of Hyōsube’s reiatsu are stirring, discouraging disobedience from the white of Tōshirō’s own.

Still, he ventures for an attempt, trying to gauge exactly what Hyōsube means by  _interest_. “They are… protective of her.”

Hyōsube’s laughter booms out towards the palace suspended eternally in the sky. “You think that I would harm her? You have growing ever-more  _daring_  with your time away, Hitsugaya-san.”

“I only wish to keep them safe,” Tōshirō insists.

Hyōsube’s laughter quietens, letting the sombre atmosphere return. “And how well do you think you can keep them safe, given that you have fallen witness to Sōsuke Aizen’s true shikai? You have thrown away a key advantage in this conflict – what  _use_  do you think you are to Kurosaki on the battlefield now?”

 ** _Devour him_** , Hyorinmaru snarls.

Tōshirō shudders at the wrath, accustomed to the typical serenity of the dragon’s advice, but refuses to act hastily upon the demonic suggestion of his other half.

 _What happened to ‘persevere’, my friend?_ he asks, quelling the zanpakuto’s growls of grievance. If he could, Tōshirō would trail his fingertips along the dragon’s tremendous snout, admiring the impenetrable dips and groves to his scales, but there is no time when Hyōsube still awaits an answer.  _The question is valid, though worded unreasonably._

**_He questions our worth, but he knows nothing of it!_ **

_But he is right._

**_He will still taste the same, regardless of whether he is_ right.**

Hyorinmaru’s fury is lightning within his thunderous world; his reiatsu, a bitter hibernation beside Hyōsube’s vast control, is the dragon’s claws and the dragon’s teeth, a beast yearning for retaliation. Supressing the roaring of his soul, Tōshirō inhales a single, frigid breath, willing his zanpakuto’s great wings to sweep the pain away.

“I can help him in other ways,” he informs the commander, levelling Hyōsube with a glare cold with the worth of Hyorinmaru’s resolution. It is not quite the  _devouring_  that they crave, but just for a moment, Hyōsube’s inky presence seems to recede a fraction, and smaller he becomes as he turns to Tōshirō with something like approval in his gaze.

“You seek to train him,” Hyōsube says, pausing for consideration as he eyes the icy determination of the man before him. “You seek to train them all.”

With a tilt of Tōshirō’s frosted crown, the twitch of his smile seems to say,  _is that so surprising?_  “They are an effective team. In war, they cannot hinder each other. Training only one would be counter-productive: they must  _all_  learn.”

Hyōsube makes a thoughtful sound, and then says nothing more for a few minutes as he looks out across the realm. Around his neck, his prayer beads clink in the cliff-side breeze as if shivering from Hyorinmaru’s lingering presence: the fleeting arctic and his wintry whites contesting against Hyōsube’s dark.

“Are you the King’s guard, or the boy’s?” Hyōsube eventually asks, and despite there being nothing in his tone to indicate such, Tōshirō is sure – as he is sure in the rise of the moon and the setting of the sun, and sure in the way they dance together, two entities of a world revolving on – that this question can tip the balance in the commander’s undecided mind.

(Tōshirō wonders if the King can hear Hyōsube’s thoughts, and he wonders if the King can hear his own).

Honesty is demanded, and so honesty is what he gives.

“I am the King’s,” he declares, firmly meeting Hyōsube’s eyes. “But is it not the King’s will to guard Kurosaki? Is it not the King’s will to ensure that he becomes something extraordinary?”

And the Monk Who Calls the Real Name laughs aloud. “I see now!” he cries, yet he does not clarify what exactly it is that has become clear. “Then I ask you this,  _Northern Intelligence_ : are you suited to train them all, or do you have something else in mind?”

Teal eyes blink away the last of the hazardous frost, and Tōshirō’s demeanour melts into surprise. “Are you offering the services of the other Royal Guards?” he mutters, doubtfully, hopefully, because  _surely_  he must have heard that wrong…?

Yet, if Tōshirō’s eyes can be believed, Hyōsube  _smiles_. “Are you requesting it?”

Tōshirō says nothing, but his silence is telling enough.

“Think on it,” Hyōsube commands, and he reaches out one terrible hand and  _pats Tōshirō’s knee_. “Consider the humans’ attributes. I am confident that you could reach a compromise. But if you  _do_  decide to enlist us all into their teaching, then I have one condition that must be fulfilled. I wish to measure the girl’s skill myself; I believe she would be most suited to learning from me.”

“I understand,” says Tōshirō – for what else can he possibly say? A decision cannot be reached without discussing the matter with Kurosaki and his friends, and Inoue will only come to train under Hyōsube if she wishes it, regardless of Tōshirō’s opinion. Therefore, he informs the commander of this, and recognises the finality in Hyōsube’s reply:

“See to it and we will talk again tomorrow. If I were you, I would go now and rescue your guests from Senjumaru, lest you never wish to see them again. I do not think she is above using live mannequins for her work, after all.”

Tōshirō bids his commander farewell, offering a little bow. He smiles at the comment about Shutara for he knows it is true, and listens to the sound of Hyōsube’s amusement echoing around the empty city.

Nothing can surprise him in the Royal Realm any more.

 

 

 

The late autumn dawn of the following morning seems to light the snow around Tōshirō’s home in rays of gentle wildfire, burning the land of December-slumber with hues of orange, yellow, and red. Kurosaki is unusually subdued as they navigate to Nimaiya’s city, but Tōshirō does not pry into his thoughts. He knows that sleep eludes the teen, and that nightmares of a hollow expanse and a voice, sickly, calling out haunt Kurosaki’s waking dreams, but he doesn’t mention that either. With any luck, Nimaiya will be swift in his approach and kind in his revelations, and soon, these sleepless nights and sleepless days will be but a memory, but watching the bounce of Zangetsu’s gigantic manifestation across Kurosaki’s back and casting his mind to Nimaiya’s frankness, Tōshirō rather imagines that he will be holding out forever.

 _Lavish_  doesn’t quite cover the extent of Nimaiya’s greeting.

Tōshirō cannot be sure if Kurosaki looks more or  _less_  traumatised after the God of the Sword throws him into the asauchi pit.

“You didn’t tell him what to expect, yo,” Nimaiya remarks, peering at Tōshirō from behind the dazzling blue lenses of his glasses, pushing at their thick, golden frames. His smile is entirely teeth and wicked, reverberating laughter, and the black curls of his hair wobble with every echoing chuckle.

Tōshirō shakes his head, wishing that he could have prepared Kurosaki for his encounter with Nimaiya. Perhaps he could have foretold of the Guard’s eccentricity, and perhaps he could have offered a warning about what it means to know  _all there is_  about every zanpakuto in existence.

“It’s not my place to instruct him in matters of his zanpakuto,” Tōshirō admits with a sigh, feeling uneasy as they oversee Kurosaki’s confrontation with the asauchi. Darkness lurks at the bottom of the ditch, smog seemingly designed solely to hide the shapeless, nameless creatures of the depths, and Kurosaki’s helplessness sets Tōshirō on edge. “And as for his hollowification – well.”

Forcing his heart not to react to Kurosaki’s panic, he glances at Nimaiya, wondering what expression the Guard is wearing behind his outlandish sunglasses.

“I figured you would know something about that too.”

Nimaiya shoots Tōshirō a ‘thumbs up’, unfazed by the dubious ethics that he has inflicted upon the lonesome substitute shinigami. “Ahhh, that’s wise of you, Hitsugaya-chan! Are you sure you’re not going to regret it though? Look down there. Kurosaki-chan’s not getting on well with the asauchi, is he? Honestly, he’s not  _worthy_  of wielding any of them. Bit of a kick in the teeth, innit?”

“Are you going to tell him that?”

“Nah, where’s the fun in that? He’ll figure it out; he’s got a lot of things to figure out, hasn’t he?”

Silver eyebrows dip downwards, intensifying the confusion in Tōshirō’s dark, narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks, troubled by the Guard’s wording, and contrary to Tōshirō, Nimaiya’s eyebrows shoot up into the black and green tangles of his hair.

“Whoa,  _man_ ,” he says, and this time, his hands form a ‘thumbs down’ gesture. “Not cool. Maybe you should go with him. Get some answers.”

Tōshirō eyes the unhappy gesture with bemusement. “Answers to what?”

Nimaiya ignores him. Instead, he hollers down to where Kurosaki is losing the brawl against the asauchi, and raises Zangetsu’s cumbersome form up over his head. Merely laughing when Kurosaki motions for it, the dark wounds of scarlet and purple across face emphasising the ferocity of his scowl, Nimaiya then swings the zanpakuto around his head and –

Tōshirō cannot bear to look upon Kurosaki’s face when the shatters of Zangetsu crumble into the ground.

“Ah, whoopsie,” Nimaiya says, throwing one of the shards into the pit. The asauchi leap away from it, scrambling over each other as if Zangetsu is something to be feared, but Kurosaki takes a single step towards it and lets out a truly agonised sound.

“What a shame,” says the God of the Sword. “Guess ya better go home, Kurosaki-chan. Take Hitsugaya-chan with you, would ya?”

“What?” blurts Kurosaki, and in the same breath, Tōshirō says the same.

“Have fun now,” Nimaiya says, dismissing them both with a wave of his hand. “Heya, Mera-chan! Is that chōkaimon ready?”

“Wait!” Kurosaki shouts, kicking away the asauchi that begins to claw at his trousers. Shrieking an ungodly sound, it leaps for him, and he swings the jagged piece of Zangetsu out to defend himself. “Hang on a second –!”

The asauchi falls back, and in the next second, one of Nimaiya’s zanpakuto assistants appears to whisk Kurosaki and all of his protests away.

Nimaiya laughs at Tōshirō’s baffled expression. “ _Relax_ , this is gonna help him. You can’t bring him back with those butterflies of yours though, you hear me?  _Don’t bring him back_ , or this whole thing is gonna be pointless.”

“But –” Tōshirō says, and it’s all he can manage before Mera reappears and the infinite darkness of the chōkaimon swallows him whole.

 

 

 

Although Tōshirō is indisputably flabbergasted to find himself crash landing in the middle of Kisuke Urahara’s home, the shopkeeper merely snaps his fan at the Guard’s graceless plummet onto his coffee table and offers a single,  _too_  surprised squeak as the collision flings out the teapot and saucers in various directions.

Used to the precision and care of his own means of transportation, Tōshirō takes a moment to compose himself, staring a dazed expression up at the ceiling as the waves of motion sickness churn away in his gut. Then, realising that he is wearing one of his simpler yukata, rather than his customary kimono, and feeling rather underdressed all of a sudden, Tōshirō peels himself up from the broken china and caffeine-splattered tabletop, and tries to rearrange his embarrassment by scrubbing one damp sleeve over his face.

“I – I’m terribly sorry,” he splutters, gathering up the sopping ends of his clothing and sliding off the table. He feels like a sacrificial lamb with a lucky escape, only he is unable to discretely tiptoe back into normality under Urahara’s gleaming eyes.

“Oh, it’s no bother!” chimes the shopkeeper, entirely unfazed. “I would offer you some tea, Hitsugaya-san, but I do believe you just fell onto my favourite teapot. Would you like something else? A towel perhaps?”

Stunned in a way that he does not often feel, Tōshirō unable to do anything but embody a deer caught in headlights as he wait for his brain to catch up.

“Um,” he says, blinking at the shopkeeper. From the depths of his being, Hyorinmaru urges him to spread out his reiatsu and gather rationalisation from their reality jump, and so Tōshirō takes a breath, calling forth his natural element to drown out the confusion and stupor.

Only then does he notice the other occupant of the room.

“ _You_ ,” he thunders, his glare throwing lightning at the gaping form of Shinji Hirako. Anger whirls at the edges of his reiatsu (“ _As long as he’s not like that Hirako guy_  –”), twisting the tranquil snowfall daybreak of his soul into a haze sharp with daggers and ice, but Hirako merely stares, watching with a stillness of a predator in the night.

“Maybe something stronger then?” the questionably-sane shopkeeper asks.

“And  _you_ ,” Tōshirō growls, staring down at the merry smile under Urahara’s hat. “Sending  _children_  into the heart of a conflict-ridden Soul Society with only a  _cat_  as back up. Were you even  _thinking_?”

Urahara  _yohoho_ s and snaps his beloved fan shut. “Yoruichi-san is no mere cat, Hitsugaya-san,” he insists, speaking as if lecturing an unruly five year old.

“They  _believed_  her to be nothing more than a cat.”

Hirako emits a hair-raising sound of amusement, as if  _chilling_  is the closest thing he can make to laugh. “Bit of a firecracker, isn’t he?”

Tōshirō  _glowers_  at the Visored’s lazy smile.

Urahara says, “Shall I break out the wine?” and joins in with his companion’s superfluous laughter.

Deeming the task of extracting straight answers out of this duo to be unreasonably taxing, Tōshirō decides not to bother, and instead focus his efforts on locating Kurosaki. Apparent as it is that the teenager has not fallen this way (the room is not warmed with his incessant burning, and though Urahara is a dubious man, he does seem to recognise Tōshirō’s concern over Kurosaki), the bitter Guard makes to leave, only to pause at the sound of commotion from further through the shop.

“Oh my!” Urahara cries, the last of his laughter ringing out even as he tries to smother it behind his fan. “That sounds like Kurosaki-san and his father right now. What a  _mess_  my house is going to become.”

The crashing and yelling increases in volume – and yes, in Kurosaki’s grousing tone, most of the words are bellowed out, and so Tōshirō breathes in through his nose, sucking in a harsh, bitter breath of air, trying to sooth the arctic edge to his reiatsu before Kurosaki enters the room. Collected in the face of calamity he is supposed to be, and so the Guard cools his rage, cursing Urahara and cursing Hirako for the catastrophe that they have made.

The door slams open, wood cracking against wood as Kurosaki thunders into the room. The teenager is fire personified, his reiatsu crackling with flames of a furious red, and with a particularly vicious shove, he hauls his captive into the room.

Isshin Shiba crashes into the table just as Tōshirō had minutes before, whimpering with a bubbly sound of amusement and pain.

Unaware of the sheer horror that splinters the neutrality on Tōshirō’s face, Kurosaki kicks the door shut, and the crashing sound amplifies the  _thwack_  of Tōshirō’s fist striking the unsuspecting  _liar_   _of an_   _ex-shinigami captain_  across the face. Ice shatters onto the floor and scatters across the tabletop like a rain of diamond and glass, and in a snowstorm whirl of cold,  _violent_ reiatsu, Tōshirō forces himself to pull away, a dragon coiling back from the rapid pre-emptive strike.

The silence is deafening.

“Okay,” Kurosaki says eventually, the only person in the room who  _truly_ has any right to restart the conversation. Dumbfounded, he scratches the side of his cheek, and stares between his blubbering father and the mortified scarlet rushing across Tōshirō’s face.

 “Kurosaki –”

“He deserved it,” Kurosaki says firmly, interrupting Tōshirō’s hushed apology. Judging from his continued look of befuddlement, he doesn’t know  _why_  his father deserved such a punch, but he shakes his head when the wintry Guard reattempts his hurried apology.

Nudging his father with his foot, Kurosaki adds, “Didn’t you, dad?”

Isshin Shiba –  _Kurosaki!_  – peels himself up from the floor and laughs nervously, unable to look either his son or the Guard in the eye.

That, the younger Kurosaki seems to conclude, stepping past his father to flump down beside Tōshirō, is answer enough.

“Oh dear,” Urahara mutters, but despite the grave atmosphere, there is a smile in his tone. “Maybe I  _should_  go and fetch that wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as ever, for your patience! Truly. We will _definitely_ be back with Ichigo in the next chapter, so we'll be dealing with all of the Royal Guard scenes and other stuff in much more detail.
> 
> 'Till then!
> 
> Please leave a comment as you go~


	9. Ichigo IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody surprised that I've had to split this chapter into two?
> 
> Nobody?
> 
> Didn't think so ^^;
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I was so determined to fit everything in one chapter my god what an idiot I am xD~~

 

“So – you knew my dad, huh? You were his third seat? And like – he was a captain? Wasn’t expecting that.”

Swishing the glass of wine around and praying that the sloppy _fluwhop_ sound of the substance splashing over the rim is amusing enough to encourage a smile, Ichigo is not surprised to feel the congelation of Tōshirō’s reiatsu beside him: rainy misery into a fog of bitterness and ire. Biting his lip to smother his awkward rambling, Ichigo sips at the wine and then recoils, understanding in a potent moment of clarity why the shinigami stewing at his side had passed over the glass.

Yet, he continues with his rambling, simply _unable_ to restrain himself at the silence. Comforting does not come naturally to Ichigo; disposed, conversely, to beat up anybody who upsets his friends, how to deal with the aftermath of this enlightenment bombshell is something he cannot fathom. Picking a fight with Aizen or – _gods_ – this barbaric arsehole of a Quincy king who indirectly _murdered_ his mother is an option, but if Ichigo has learnt anything from his short time as a shinigami, it’s that there are _other ways_ of resolving a conflict.

That doesn’t mean he _wouldn’t_ sock either antagonist across the face given half the chance, but rather, following Tōshirō’s example and not _actively_ seeking trouble is the wiser, more practical idea.

He swishes the glass of wine.

He would quite like to give Aizen a piece of his mind though. That traitor has hurt too many of his friends for Ichigo not to be personally involved.

“I mean – my dad’s too dorky to be a captain, but he was completely serious. I’ve never seen him so serious. You should’ve seen his face. I wanted to punch him. I’m glad you did, because I wanted to, but he’s my dad and he’s an idiot and he’s an _ex-shinigami captain_.  And my mum was a Quincy! What am I supposed to do with this information? ‘By the way son, your mum was a Quincy.’ ‘Oh, _thanks dad_ , good to finally know that I’m not even _human_ ’.”

Ichigo huffs, feeling dumb for bemoaning a fate that he cannot change. Sorely tempted to down the rest of the wine just for the morbid entertainment of spluttering it all back up again, he sighs, lying back across the rooftop to glare instead at the afternoon haze of amber in the sky. There are words and feelings and _so_ _many things_ churning inside of his chest, crashing against his ribcage like an animal rabid with desperation – _let me out, let me out, I need to be said_ – and it is such a heavy hollowness that Ichigo feels sick with it: feels sick and overwhelmed, but so empty at the same time, so impossibly, dreadfully empty.

He wonders if Tōshirō feels the same, sitting silent as if the world he has known has crumbled about him, fragments and ruins heaving his shoulders down. Tea-stains splatter the edges of his yukata, soiling the simple strands. He is a sorry sight, seemingly unworthy of commanding the skies to his will, but the sorrow merely serves to make him human, just as Isshin’s revelation makes Ichigo not.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ichigo breathes, and seeming to startle at the sharp exhale, Tōshirō laughs a sullen sound.

“I suppose I now understand why Nimaiya-dono brought me along,” he remarks humourlessly as he shifts across the tiles to face the teen, ethereal edges seeming to shimmer in the golden sunlight. Tōshirō sighs a dragon’s breath and Ichigo does the same, puffing out a cloud of condensation into the conversation, and then glowers when the Guard’s next breath drops a scattering of hail and ice onto his skin.

 _Really?_ says raise of Ichigo’s eyebrows. He reaches up to brush the icicles from his face, only to falter when Tōshirō’s hand meets him halfway; they freeze, fingers crashing together as they abandon their automatic motions, and then Tōshirō laughs again, sounding embarrassed but far more sincere.

“I’m glad to know that my captain did not die as previously believed,” he admits, swiftly sweeping the frozen remnants of his reiatsu from Ichigo’s skin and then trapping his idle hands back into the depths of his yukata. A choked off, kind of _oh god_ sound escapes his throat, and since Ichigo has never seen Tōshirō so awkwardly _graceless_ before, he smiles even as the Guard promises a long and merciless death with his scowl.

“Yeah,” Ichigo says, the rising blush connecting the freckle cloud across the bridge of his nose like a dot-to-dot of his mortification. “That must be a weight off your shoulders.”

“The truth is not kind to those who are ignorant,” Tōshirō says, agreeing in such a roundabout way that Ichigo cannot help but roll his eyes. “But this is not about me. How do you feel now that you are aware of your Quincy heritage?”

Ichigo isn’t sure, and he informs his friend as such. Even unknowingly, he has always had Quincy heritage, so perhaps the revelation changes little. Never would he have guessed that the archers’ blood runs through his veins: throughout his training, there were no clues, no indications, and no urges or _needs_ to materialise a bow, so Ichigo wonders if he even _can_ tap into that power. His latent shinigami heritage had awoken to protect him, not his Quincy, so maybe he is of his mother’s people only in name – maybe he is not truly a Quincy at all.

He wishes he could ask his mother. Her absence burns behind his eyes, blurring the afternoon sky into the golden bronze of her hair, and Ichigo _longs_ for her as he used to years ago: as he used to before the injustice of death had closed off his heart and laughed at his childish cries.

 _She’s not coming back,_ the river had lamented, tempesting his dreams into torrents and nightmares. _Why would she come back to the one that had killed her?_

Ichigo pushes down the rising burn of want – _you’re not a child anymore,_ he berates himself, shoving the silly need for his mother away, _get a grip_. For a moment he hates himself – hates his weakness, his vulnerability, his _need_ – but then he refocuses on Tōshirō’s awaiting expression to calm himself, and, with a shrug that he instantly regrets as his shoulders scrape against the roof tiles, eventually admits;

“It’s my mum’s Hollow that’s bothering me, really. It’s… making me wonder about mine.”

As if sensing Ichigo’s turmoil, Tōshirō doesn’t miss a beat before replying. “Your mother had a Hollow? But as a Quincy…?”

“I know. Urahara-san managed to stabilise mum’s soul, but they needed a shinigami for that – that’s why dad lost his powers, to keep mum’s Hollow in check. But can Hollow powers be hereditary? I always thought I became a Visored when I almost turned into a Hollow, but I dunno. Maybe I was always a Visored – or at least predisposed. Maybe that’s why my Hollow can wield Zangetsu? Maybe –”

_( **I AM ZANGETSU** )._

The thought trails off, words failing him. Realisation sinks heavy in Ichigo’s gut as he recalls the Hollow’s bellowed proclamation. Only last night, the Hollow had raged at him, prowling the edges of their connected world like a tiger, or a wolf wholly surrendered to the merciless winter – one with it, jagged edges and snarling, bitter eyes. Zangetsu’s colossal blade had dragged along behind it, heavy with the zanpakuto’s silence, carving the Hollow’s wrath into the skylines, and Ichigo had been helpless but to watch from a distance, wondering where the distinction between the parts of his soul began.

He had questioned and he had feared. But maybe… maybe they’re not so different after all.

“Perhaps Nimaiya-dono will know?” Tōshirō suggests.

“Yeah,” Ichigo says slowly, frown indicating his lack of enthusiasm for the idea. It is not necessarily a terrible idea – as if Tōshirō could _ever_ offer such a thing – but rather, Ichigo’s reluctance stems from his independence, his unwillingness to rely on Nimaiya’s boundless knowledge. Nimaiya may be the creator of the zanpakuto, an omniscient being in regards to their deathly souls, but that does not give him the right to scour through Ichigo’s soul when Ichigo – and Zangetsu, and even the Hollow – are perfectly capable of solving this matter on their own.

“Or…” Ichigo continues, steeling himself with his newfound resolve. “I could just ask my Hollow directly. I can’t keep trying to ignore him. I don’t want to run away from my problems – maybe he’s not a problem; maybe I’ve just been looking at everything wrong. I need to do this – sooner, rather than later.”

 _I see_ , says Tōshirō’s hum of comprehension, thoughtful in the manner that defines him, bright and considerate, calculating everything at once. “You believe that facing your Hollow is necessary to rekindle your bond with your zanpakuto?”

 _I think it’s more than that_ , Ichigo doesn’t say, but he nods because, as ever, Tōshirō’s appraisal is accurate, if slightly misworded in explaining his intentions. Ichigo’s soul is not merely ‘shinigami’ and ‘zanpakuto’ anymore, and maybe Tōshirō, who breathes in time with a dragon and need not worry about Quincy, human, or Hollow, simply cannot identity with such a mismatched equilibrium of a soul.

“When?” asks the Guard, and if he is aware of his inability to truly understand the matter, he is undeterred as he pushes on and offers his unwavering support.

“Now. I need to do this now. I might be a while, so you should… go talk to my dad, or something,” Ichigo says, settling into a meditative position. Tōshirō shuffles back to give him some space, and Ichigo almost startles at how close they had been.

Quiet in his watch of Ichigo’s breathing evening out, Tōshirō makes no move to return into the shop and confront Isshin for a second time. Instead, he remains just a hair’s breadth away, gathering up the folds of his yukata as if they could ever stretch into the ethereal realm of his kimono, and then gets comfortable once again.

“I’d like to stay.”

Ichigo shouldn’t have expected anything different. He doesn’t argue over the matter, doubtful that Tōshirō would abandon his guard even if asked, and merely nods his head, accepting the concern – and maybe the loyalty – with nothing more than a muttered, “Keep an eye out then?”

Winter inclines its watchful gaze, and a smile shines in Tōshirō’s eyes. “Of course.”

Returning the smile, Ichigo closes his eyes and lets his mind slip away.

 

 

 

Skyscrapers rise up around him, a mechanical world rushing into creation. Clouds gather for his descent, weightless hands of black and white cushioning his plummet into the city. Ichigo fears not for his demise against concrete and glass, assured in the realm’s intention to inflict no harm, and takes a moment to appreciate his unruly soul, storm-calling air whipping past him, heavy with rain, wild and free.

The rooftops cradle him, ceasing his fall into the infinite world below. Around him, the world rights itself, a metropolitan tipping into delusion. Grey skies watch from above, and golden eyes watch from afar.

“ ** _King_**.”

Summoned, Ichigo opens his eyes and turns to cast his gaze out across dim city lights. Cat-like, predatory, and lounged across the tower’s edge with a smile of fangs and self-assurance, the Hollow says nothing more, but there is a challenge in his eyes just _daring_ Ichigo to approach.

Ichigo does. Zangetsu’s mirror blade materialises beside the Hollow in an instant, sleek and overpowering and endlessly, beautifully white, but Ichigo pays no heed to the warning. His Hollow is a threat, of that there is no doubt, but even the most domesticated animals can be dangerous if given sufficient incentive, and while the Hollow is _certainly_ not a housecat, he has definitely been trapped in the corner for long enough.

He sits down next to his Hollow counterpart. Zangetsu’s razor tips rises up to his throat, the flat edge knocking his chin, but Ichigo just lifts an eyebrow at the Hollow’s topaz glare. The blade poises steady just an inch from his skin, a wolf’s terrible jaws snarling with the opportunity, but the Hollow does not follow through with the strike.

“ ** _I could kill you_**.”

“Yeah, you could,” Ichigo says, thinking back to the weeks of sleepless nights, haunted days, and the hours he lost somewhere amongst the fraying edges of his sanity and the Hollow’s vile words screaming out, and adds, “But not like this.”

The Hollow snarls a wretched sound, insult curling up his lips. “ ** _We are nothing alike_**.”

“Well, we look pretty similar.”

 _Are you serious_ , drawls the Hollow’s flat stare. Recognising the expression as one of his own, Ichigo feels a bizarre rush of surrealism as his golden-eyed counterpart twists his – their – features into ridicule.

“Also,” Ichigo adds lightly, gauging how far he can press by the number of teeth that the Hollow has on show. “You haven’t skewered me yet, so we can’t be that different.”

Zangetsu tears through his throat with a resolute shove, brutality carving flesh and bone and crunching a fatal path through Ichigo’s jaw to protrude out the back of his skull. The hilt punches the breath from his mouth, Zangetsu’s bandaged end slamming into his teeth. The Hollow’s skin is cold against his own, but there is no pain in the touch, and panic only in the Hollow’s eyes, irises bronze and wide with Ichigo’s surprise.

“Holy _shit_ , did you just –?”

The sword is torn free with a vicious yank, and Ichigo gasps a strangled gurgle.

“ ** _The fuck is going on?_** ” says the Hollow, scowling at the bloodless blade as a child would, accusing a toy of breaking itself just to spite the unkind hands. “ ** _I_ can’t _have missed_**.”

Despite his current state of _breathing_ , Ichigo has to rub his throat just to make sure. “Didn’t _feel_ like it missed,” he grumbles, half-amused by the Hollow’s disbelief and half-appalled that he actually drove the point home.

“ ** _How the fuck would you know?_** ”

“Well it went through _my_ throat –”

“ ** _Well it clearly fucking_ didn’t _–_** ”

Laughter interrupts them, a mellow, familiar sound ringing out over the rising tones of their spat, and Ichigo swivels around with such abandon that he fails to notice both the white Zangetsu slicing through his chest and the resulting squawk from the Hollow as the sword swings free.

Shrouded in the darkened questions of his absence, a cloak of shadow ethereal about his aged physique, the spirit approaches as Ichigo remembers him, tall and assured, black sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

“That was poorly misjudged,” Zangetsu says, referring back to Ichigo’s claim that the Hollow wouldn’t attempt decapitation. He inclines his head towards the duo in such an ordinary manner that Ichigo cannot decide whether to hug or punch the spirit across his shaggy, untroubled _face_.

The tips of his ears burning red as he recalls his taunting words, Ichigo stares up at the elder embodiment of his soul and flounders for an explanation. “I didn’t think he’d – I didn’t think –”

 _I didn’t think you would care_ , he realises, failing to unstick his tongue and greet the spirit properly. _I didn’t think you would ever talk to me again_.

He doesn’t say this, but in the world they share at the centre of his soul, he never truly has to.

“ _Ichigo_ ,” Zangetsu says, sighing a soft, almost guilty little sound. He seems disappointed, perhaps reluctant to chastise Ichigo’s fiery need for reassurance, and the shinigami ducks his head, wishing to understand.

“ ** _Oh boo-hoo_** ,” says the Hollow, wholly unsympathetic. “ ** _Ain’t we all a sob story._** ”

Overhead, the sky darkens into a sorrowful grey. Rain patters down, chinking a quiet melody against the landscape of glass and stone. The Hollow heaves up his colossal sword and uses it to cover his hair.

“ ** _That wasn’t a fucking invitation_** ,” he grumbles, glaring disdainfully through the gloom.

Ichigo cracks a smile despite himself at the Hollow’s sodden expression, and then startles when he feels the brush of Zangetsu’s cloak lifting up to protect him further from the rain. Glancing up from underneath the midnight fabric, he spies the white dress shirt that the spirit keeps hidden beneath his shadows, and ponders on the nature of such a peculiar image as the raindrops thunder down.

“Zangetsu,” he calls, rekindling the courage that had stirred him to enter this metropolitan world. Both spirits look towards him, old and young, black and white and white and black, their waterlogged expressions impassive and exasperated in turn, and Ichigo pauses, quirking a disheartened smile at having his theory confirmed.

“Old man,” he clarifies, ignoring his look-a-like’s eye roll. “You’re not my zanpakuto, are you?”

The manifestation looks down, studying Ichigo’s expectation with a firm tilt of his lips. Black hair flops against his bearded chin, thick tangles of a raven’s feathers plastered across his face.

“I am your power,” the spirit insists, motioning towards the gigantic blade functioning as a makeshift umbrella. “And I have always been what you believed me to be.”

“ ** _Liar,_** ” says the Hollow, but his cowering from the rain detracts from his ferocity.

Ichigo flicks his gaze towards him, absorbing his sopping, vengeful expression, and resists the urge to kick him for his childish grumbling. Hatred will not rectify this wound between them; they must learn to listen to one another and Ichigo vows to start now.

“And what’s that?” he asks the spirit above him, eager to know where they stand.

“That is not for me to decide, is it?” he replies, raising one eyebrow from behind his sunglasses, and Ichigo smiles as if the deception between them is something to find entertainment in.

The rain eases off a little. Regardless, the Hollow still grumbles something indiscernible at the weather, glowering at the other thirds of his soul. Yet, pleased with his progress so far, Ichigo turns back towards his mirror image to address the issue at hand:

“And what about you?” he asks the golden-eyed being. “Have you always been what I thought you were?”

“ ** _And what’s that then?_** ” the Hollow snarls, shaking some water from his sleeve with a look of someone who has taken personal offence.

Ichigo smirks. “A complete pain in the arse?”

The sleeve swings around and narrowly misses slapping Ichigo across the face.

“ ** _Fuck off. If you’re gonna be a dick about it, at least be accurate, arsehole._** ”

“I’m sorry,” Ichigo says, and although he laughs at the Hollow’s growl, he is sincere in his apology. The Hollow grumbles some more, clutching the zanpakuto closer to his head, and then sticks out his tongue at the teenager’s smile.

“Hey,” Ichigo soothes, holding his hands up in surrender. There isn’t any need for as the Hollow is incapable of harming him in this world (that is, _anymore_ ), but he follows up with _calm down_ motions anyway, enjoying the disgruntlement on his counterpart’s face. “Shall I call you ‘Zangetsu’ too?”

Beside him, the elder spirit startles. Surprise droops the cloak clutched unwaveringly in his grasp, the wispy fabric brushing against Ichigo’s skin, and he shifts on the spot almost uncomfortably – were he anybody else – stepping closer to Ichigo to shield him further from the rain.

The clouds break into sunshine, and Ichigo’s smile is gold.

“ ** _Oh_ now _he asks_** ,” drawls the Hollow. Predatory eyes scan the skyline with suspicion, but there seems to be softness in his gaze – an acceptance, perhaps, or happiness that Ichigo is sure reflects the feeling in the older spirit’s eyes.

“Would you like that?” he asks, although he is sure of the response. “Both of you?”

“ ** _You mean I’d have to share with this guy?_** ” the Hollow asks, jabbing his thumb towards the Quincy embodiment. The noise of disapproval this evokes nearly eradicates Ichigo’s glee, but then he catches the Hollow’s smirk and realises, with an inaudible breath of relief, that the exasperation had been for the _this guy_ comment, and not the matter at hand.

Ichigo laughs. “Sure. Why not?”

“ ** _I_ am _your Hollow, you know._** ”

“Yeah, I know. I mean – I think. I inherited those powers from my mum, didn’t I? I don’t know how you can be a Hollow and a zanpakuto at the same time, but does it matter?”

Maybe he _should_ find out. Nimaiya might know – Nimaiya seems to know far more than any man should ever know – but then, what difference would this knowledge make? The nature of his Hollow-zanpakuto combination is probably not something that he can change, but Ichigo sees little point in striving for it anyway. His soul is enough of a complication as it is – but stable, considering the mess, and so the most sensible course of action would probably be leaving it alone. Heaven knows that nothing good comes from playing around with the metaphysical.

He doesn’t feel the need to follow Aizen’s example, after all.

After thinking about it for the shortest of moments, the Hollow – Zangetsu – shrugs. He lowers the zanpakuto from his head, trusting that the rain has finally cleared away.

“ ** _Dunno,_** ” he admits. He adds _you’re weird_ by way of explanation.

Ichigo squawks a protest. “ _You’re_ weird, not me. You scared me fucking half to death.”

“ ** _You weren’t listening to me._** ”

“You were _yelling_.”

“ ** _You were too thick-headed to realise that meant I wanted your fucking attention._** ”

“Dude, what are you – a _cat_?”

“ ** _Shut the hell up.”_**

“ _You_ shut the hell up.”

“I am surprised that you have yet to comprehend your similarities,” their bystander interrupts, and both Ichigo and the Hollow-Zangetsu splutter with outrage.

“We’re not _tha_ t alike!” Ichigo insists, embarrassment blazing a wildfire across his freckled face.

“ ** _I dunno,_** ” the Hollow adds, his smile smug and worthy of adorning the Cheshire Cat. “ ** _We do_ look _pretty similar._** ”

Ichigo would have leapt over and _strangled_ the cocky smirk from his zanpakuto’s face had a hand not grounded him, a simple, silent motion throwing him back to the resolution still waiting to be reached. The Hollow chortles at his lucky escape, and Ichigo glowers, promising revenge with the sharp, golden-angles of his scowl.

“I am a representation of your Quincy powers, Ichigo. I am honoured to still hold the title of ‘Zangetsu’, but I cannot deny that my name is something else,” Zangetsu’s other half retells, voice grave and thick with the shadows of his lie.

The Hollow quietens immediately, piped by his opposite’s – his complementary’s? – admission. Ichigo presses his lips together and tilts his head back to meet Zangetsu’s shrouded gaze, and then adopts a smile that almost mirrors his Hollow’s smug grin.

(Maybe they’re not that different).

“But you said that you were what I always believed you to be,” Ichigo says. “And that’s someone who I am proud to fight alongside.”

“ ** _Sappy_**.”

“It has not been me that has risen to your defence when you needed it most,” the Quincy manifestation points out, ignoring the Hollow’s unnecessary comment. “I have hindered you.”

“Yeah, but you’ve both done that, so that’s a moot point. But if you’re referring to that fight with Byakuya – seriously? That was ages ago. What about Kenpachi? Are you trying to make me change my mind or something? You’re my Quincy powers – big deal. He’s my Hollow – big deal. You’re also both my zanpakuto, and I’m happy with that if you guys are. We don’t have to fight it out. I don’t really _want_ to fight: I’ve been doing enough of that already. I just want to be able to talk to you guys.”

_I want to be there for you, just as I want you to be there for me._

He isn’t sure he could handle Zangetsu abandoning him again. His friends had tried to fill the gap they couldn’t see, and Ichigo is grateful for that, but their failure had been inevitable. Even Tōshirō, absent as he was over the past few months, had not left such a wound in Ichigo’s chest from his time away. _Distressed_ doesn’t cover how Ichigo had felt. He is sure that it would be the same for any zanpakuto and wielder, and his gut churns at the thought of any shinigami losing touch with the other side of their soul.

“ ** _Well you better come up with a way of distinguishing between us, ‘cause ‘Zangetsu’ is gonna get real confusing real quick_** ,” the Hollow says, kicking back across the rooftop with the care of an alpha lion bathing in the sun. Around them, their concrete inner world brightens at his easy-going tenor; the clouds drift onwards, letting lazy light ooze through the remnants of the rain, and the grey winds ease their gales, calming the atmosphere lingering from the storm.

“Err, I’m not very good with names,” Ichigo says, scratching his cheek.

“ ** _Just as long as it’s not like ‘Zangetsu One’ and ‘Zangetsu Two’_**.”

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

“ ** _Uh-huh,_** ” says the Hollow.

Ichigo glowers. Amber hair tousles over his face in the breeze, gold and dry from beneath Zangetsu’s protection. Drawing his cloak back about him, the Quincy-Zangetsu says nothing in the face of his wielder’s admission, but this time he shifts his centre of gravity in an almost nervous manner, wrapping himself in his shadows like a child hugging itself in guilt.

 _Traitor_ , Ichigo thinks.

The last of the storm-driven wind seems to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Ichigo says, crossing his arms as if the action will help in hiding his humiliation from the two embodiments of his soul. "I’ll think of something. Gimme some time.”

“Of course.”

“ ** _Yeah, it’s not like we’re preparing for_ war _or anything. Couldn’t possibly imagine why you’d need us._** ”

Ichigo notes the sarcasm and imagines that it’s going to be a frequent drawl in the back of his mind.

“Would you rather choose your name?” he queries, half-joking, and though he intends a condescending tone, once he asks the questions, he wonders if, really, it’s such a terrible idea after all.

The Hollow dashes his idea without pause, barking startled laughter. “ ** _Hell no. You think I could come up with anything better than you can? Please_**.”

“Fair enough,” Ichigo says after a moment of flabbergast blinking, adding a shrug. He doubts that the slightly backwards compliment had been the Hollow’s intent, but either way, he decides not to mention it.

“ _Ah_. I’m sure the internet will have something.”

Although neither half of his zanpakuto say anything in reply to this, Ichigo can feel their horror at the possibility. He laughs, loud and free, and then almost rolls himself from the tower-top when the Zangetsus exchange wary glances over his head.

 _Do you think he’s serious_ , the Hollow mouths, and the Quincy makes a motion like a shrug.

Ichigo is sure that they’ll all get along now.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he says, wheezing out the reassurance. “I’m _kidding_. I’m not going to subject you to that. Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.”

“You’re welcome, Ichigo,” Quincy-Zangetsu says, completely missing the sarcasm.

This time, the bout of laughter does result in somebody falling from the rooftop, but it is the Hollow-Zangetsu who doubles over, colour-negative hair falling across his unrestrained amusement. Later, Ichigo will argue that the tears of laughter in his eyes were the only reason that the Hollow managed to drag him off the side as well, but at the time, he is oblivious to his zanpakuto’s flailing, grasping hands. Ichigo only notices once the air whips about him and the sky somersaults over his head, the clouds parting as if the realm itself is grinning; he yelps, cursing his zanpakuto wildly, and it is with this bellowed profanity that he is hurtled back into the waking world.

“Kurosaki-san?”

Karakura has settled into dusk when Ichigo opens his eyes to find that Tōshirō, ever patient, has maintained his quiet guard at his side. Worry clouds the Guard’s expression, twisting his January calm into unease. There is a layer of frost around him, paper-thin ice like a Christmas dust over his robes, and so Ichigo is quick to offer a warm assurance, smiling a golden smile.

“We’re good,” he says, hearing the Hollow’s cackling laughter in the back of his mind. Zangetsu’s other half hushes him, murmuring a reprimand, and Ichigo’s eye-roll is fond as his soul quietens down. “Thanks.”

Composure settles back into Tōshirō’s demeanour, hiding his winter worries as if they had never even been there.

“I’m glad,” he says, asking for nothing more than this reassurance. “Your father wandered out briefly, asking after you, but I assured him that you were well. He returned inside maybe ten minutes ago.”

“Did you not talk to him?”

Tōshirō shakes his head. “No. I informed him that I would – but only after you returned. My duty is here, regardless of any personal preference.”

For a man with a dragon’s heart and an arctic soul, Tōshirō is so surprisingly warm.

“You could have gone you know,” Ichigo insists. If he had been able to predict the passage of time while in his inner world, he would not have asked his friend to remain constrained at his side. “I wasn’t going to wander off or anything.”

Tōshirō gives him a look eerily similar to the one he inflicts upon Matsumoto. “That was not what I was concerned about.”

Ichigo sighs in defeat, wondering why he had tried to argue with Tōshirō’s sense of duty. “Yeah, I know. But really, we’ve talked it out. I think they’re going to be a bit tetchy around each other for a while when I’m not there, but we’ve agreed to work together. I don’t know if that’s what Nimaiya-san wanted but…”

“Are you happy with the arrangement?” the Guard asks, picking up the tail end of the conversation.

“Yeah, of course,” Ichigo says, his voice firm.

“Then I’m sure Nimaiya-dono will have nothing to complain about,” Tōshirō replies, and though his eyes are kind and his smile is small, there is something rather unsettling in his tone – it is smooth, but too smooth, and thick with promises of threats and woes.

Ichigo laughs because there is nothing else to be done upon realising that one’s friend is _absolutely fucking terrifying_.

Tōshirō just sort of laughs along with this amused little huff, and Ichigo prayers that his hair isn’t standing on end.

“How are we going to get back to the Royal Realm anyway?” he asks, squashing down an exclamation of _just fuck me up_. Nimaiya has _no idea_ what’s coming, and Ichigo vows to never have a reason to warrant Tōshirō’s ‘bad side’. “Can you just open a senkaimon?”

“The term is ‘chōkaimon’, but yes, I can. Although – Nimaiya-dono asked me not to, so I rather imagine that he has other plans.” Here, Tōshirō rolls his eyes, revealing just how he feels concerning these ‘other plans’. “Perhaps once he deems you ready to return, he will bring us back in much the same fashion that he dropped us here.”

“’Dropped’ is pretty accurate,” Ichigo grumbles, hoping that this won’t be the case. Recalling the indignity of peeling himself up from the street outside the Karakura Clinic, he scowls, promising to give the God of the Sword a piece of his mind once they return.

“It is, isn’t it,” Tōshirō agrees, lamenting a memory of his own.

Heedless at preventing his mind from conjuring the image of Tōshirō – perpetually graceful, composed as he is – tumbling through the sky, Ichigo smirks. “You got dumped in the street too? Don’t you have Guard-magic or something to prevent that sort of scandal?”

“While I am flattered to hear that you consider me decorous enough to justify supernormal influence, unfortunately we all cannot be Byakuya Kuchiki. I landed on Urahara-san’s coffee table actually. Hence the tea stains.”

“Who even says ‘supernormal’?” Ichigo says, ducking his head to mumble the comment more to himself than his friend, but if Tōshirō’s resulting glower is enough of an indication, the snicker doesn’t pass unnoticed.

“You’re too kind,” the wintry shinigami deadpans, his eyes of ice just daring Ichigo to laugh.

“You love it,” Ichigo says without thinking, emotions whirling unrestrained through the filter in his mouth, happiness pouring out as he laughs at the thought of Tōshirō’s crash-landing onto Urahara’s table.

Tōshirō emits an odd little noise and softens his gaze, realising that his glare is having no effect. “I do,” he says after a moment, his voice surprisingly breathless considering it is Ichigo who cannot help his laughter. “Heavens help me, Matsumoto was right.”

“About what?”

“ _Everything_ ,” the Guard replies, sighing in the tone of somebody resigning himself to fate.

Unsure if he is supposed to offer support or not – Matsumoto _is_ usually right – Ichigo shrugs.

He can’t argue with that.

 

 

 

Knives fill the atmosphere of Urahara’s shop once everybody convenes back inside. The shopkeeper’s cheerful disposition is useless against the glares and daggers that Ichigo and Hirako hurl between them, but he seems not mind, content to watch with an almost heartless sort of amusement as tensions rise within the room. Mindful of the imminent confrontation, Tōshirō and Isshin are quick to escape, although considering Tōshirō’s clipped tone and the air of frost about him when he traps the ex-shinigami captain in his dragon-worthy gaze, Ichigo rather doubts that Isshin had any say before being hauled away. Entirely unfazed by the forthcoming of his father’s demise, Ichigo plonks himself down at the table and politely refuses the offer of tea and/or alcohol (“I _am_ underage, Urahara-san.”) and then levels Hirako with the full weight of his attention.

It is heavy. Hirako doesn’t even flinch. The same cannot be said for Urahara, well-practiced in interpreting Ichigo’s expressions as he is, who promptly clacks open his fan and hides behind it with a nervous sort of titter.

“So, ya sorted yourself out then?” Hirako begins, breaking out into a smile worthy of the Cheshire cat, blonde and pale with a face of sharp angles and sinister suggestions. It is by far the most intimidating expression Ichigo has ever seen, but he refuses to reveal how the lazy grin shoots shivers down his spine.

“Yeah, I did,” he replies, straightening himself up with the challenge. “Funny what I can get done without somebody breathing down my neck.”

“ _Oh_.” Hirako’s sigh is melodramatic, and Ichigo almost expects him to place a hand over his heart as he bemoans, “You wound me.”

The smile irks Ichigo more than he will ever admit. “Good.”

“Ruthless,” Hirako says, laughter tinged with the tiniest sliver of surprise.

Nobody says anything for a long while. Outside, beyond the confines of this Karakura cage that Nimaiya has devised, Tōshirō’s reiryoku is churning like Antarctica preparing for the winter months. Despite the unrest, Ichigo is sure that Tōshirō’s expression is guarded, reluctant to reveal any hurt to his ex-captain: his mask is thick, a formidable fortress constructed over the years, and Isshin has probably heart-broken any chance at ever being allowed past it again.

Ichigo hopes this not to be the case, but he is beginning to understand the workings of his friend’s mind, and he knows that _he_ would be the same if forced into anything like Tōshirō’s position.

That doesn’t mean that it’s the right move – when is bitterness _ever_ the right move? – and Ichigo heaves a sigh as he realises just how much of a hypocrite he is.

He forgave Zangetsu – _both of them_. He can forgive Urahara and Hirako for scheming behind his back.

Ichigo isn’t sure about the stalking and the creeping though.

“You know,” he begins, resigning himself to looking at Hirako’s ugly-mug of a smug smile. “I don’t need your help anymore.”

The Visored merely tilts his head, straight razor fringe brushing dangerously close to his eyes. The quirk of his smile asks _you think I’m that stupid?_ and Ichigo glowers, refusing to feel belittled as he continues:

“But you’re Urahara-san’s friend, and you said – that there are more of you? Visoreds, I mean, not Urahara-san’s friends –”

Hirako’s interrupting laughter is more of a chilling cackle than anything resembling moral amusement, but it is short and startled, a genuine sound. Urahara makes a wounded noise from behind the folded lilies on his fan, but Hirako is unapologetic, just as Ichigo cannot hide the reddening tips of his ears.

“I knew you had a sense of humour in there somewhere,” the Visored says, the waggle of his blond eyebrows a bizarre combination of condescending and approving. “I got the impression that you were all frowns and scowls.”

“Only around you,” Ichigo deadpans.

“I like him,” Hirako says to Urahara, accented voice thick with disregard. He speaks as though he has entirely forgotten that Ichigo has the cognitive capabilities of comprehending their gossip, and Ichigo rolls his eyes.

“I can see why he didn’t want to join us,” Hirako adds, paradoxically cheerful.

“I believe that was due to Hitsugaya-san’s input, more than anything,” Urahara explains gently, no doubt keeping his voice low in fear of testing the Guard’s patience and encouraging his temper to start swinging fists again.

Ichigo wants to scowl, insulted both at the implication that Tōshirō controls his life and that suggestion that Tōshirō is so unreasonable, but it is difficult as a grin fights onto his face, pure relish at Urahara’s wariness quirking up his lips.

Opposite, Hirako’s eyebrows shoot up into the depths of his hair, his expression twisting into a cheery _uh-oh_ of comprehension. Urahara brightens at the sight of it, and Ichigo’s mood plummets instantly.

“If we’re going to talk about people giving me _advice_ ,” he says, cutting across whatever clever comment Urahara has planned. “Then maybe we should start with _you_ , huh? Tōshirō was right, you know. Five people and a cat isn’t exactly an ideal task force for infiltrating a military organisation.”

Urahara has the decency to look sheepish, but rather than fuelling Ichigo’s anger like the substitute expects, the scientist’s nervousness merely serves to dispel his deepening frown. It’s not worth it, he realises, grumbling _forget it_ and _it’s in the past_ with a dismissive way of his hand. He’s _supposed_ to be keeping his head as they settle out the secrets, the stalking, and the lies, so Ichigo calms, reminding himself to be _forgiving_ , not frustrated.

Urahara, of course, puts his foot into it. “My intentions _are_ aimed at guaranteeing your safety, Kurosaki-san,” he says, and Ichigo tuts before he can stop himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If they were, you never would have let me enter the Soul Society in the first place. But I get that you’re _trying_ to look out for me, so don’t worry about it. Not even Tōshirō can guarantee my safety, no matter how much he tries. But I’m not talking about Tōshirō – in fact, Hirako, I’d like to meet the other Visoreds, if that’s alright with you lot.”

He doesn’t imagine that Hirako is particularly trusting by nature, the stalking and general creepy behaviour being a big clue, so Ichigo wouldn’t be surprised if the Visored shoots down his request. Granted, Ichigo isn’t inclined to extend his trust towards Hirako in return, but he has rekindled his bond with his Quincy and Hollow powers, attempting to fix this tension with the Visored is only right. They – the Soul Society, Urahara, Ichigo and his friend – will need all of the allies they can get, after all, and Ichigo supposes that at the end of the day, any enemy of Aizen’s is a friend of theirs.

And anyway, Urahara trusts Hirako, and Ichigo trusts Urahara, despite being fully aware of the man’s questionable morals. If nothing else, he’ll give Hirako the benefit of the doubt, stalker-ish smile and all.

Hirako doesn’t seem to share the same frame of mind, but this does pose the question as to whether he can express any emotion beyond _smug_ on the sharp, washed-out pallor of his face. “Oh? And why should I let you into my home?”

“Sheer entertainment value?” Ichigo drawls, laying mordacity on thick. “I’m sure you’d get a kick out of it.”

“Hiyori certainly,” Hirako agrees, making a thoughtful sound. “And you are pretty funny – for a kid.”

Ichigo bristles. Urahara clacks his fan shut before he can explode with protest.

“Alright then,” Hirako says after a pause, bearing his teeth with a smile. “I’m sure it could be fun. I’ll talk to the others – we’ll keep in touch. Don’t expect us to extend the same hospitality to your Royal Guard boyfriend though. He’s staying in the dark for this one.”

“ _He’s not my boyfriend_ ,” Ichigo blurts in one rushed breath, eyes ogling at the scandal of the suggestion. The outcast duo blink at him, silenced by his denial, and Ichigo wishes it were possible for the floor to swallow him and hide him from their canny stares. Blood _pours_ into his cheeks, scarlet skin blending together the freckle constellation across his nose, and he fumbles over his words, fighting to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.“But – but yeah – sure, I guess – I mean, I don’t think he’d mind –”

“Being your boyfriend?” Hirako slides in, laughing over Ichigo’s vehement _no!_ “Sure he wouldn’t – _but anyway_. It’s been _lovely_ , but I better leave ya to it. See ya around, Kisuke. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Oh, when do I ever,” Urahara replies in exactly the same tone, and together they seem like a pair of schoolgirls giggling over gossip, or a mad-scientist duo on the verge of discovery.

Ichigo isn’t sure which comparison is more accurate, but his brain and tongue refuse to articulate anything worthwhile to argue.

“Catch you later kiddo,” Hirako says, and as he dances around the table with a cat-like sort of slink, his hand reaches out and ruffles up Ichigo’s hair. “Stay vigilant. Wouldn’t want something to happen to that delightful smile of yours.”

If it could, Ichigo’s jaw would have hit the floor. “ _Piss off_.”

Hirako’s reply is an honest-to-god giggle. “Ya kill me.”

So much for restarting their acquaintance with better first impressions.

Ichigo just about manages to resist flipping the Visored the bird as he ducks out of the door with that shit-eating grin of his, which is just as well, it turns out, for Tōshirō slips back in in the next moment, completely missing the eyebrow waggle that Hirako directs towards him.

If Urahara’s quiet noise is anything to go by, Ichigo doesn’t quite succeed in smothering his growl.

“I take it that conversation went well, then?” Tōshirō asks lightly, arranging himself neatly into the open space. With the simplicity of his yukata adorning him, he doesn’t quite glide with his characteristic ethereal conduct, but he settles into the conversation with all his usual grace, the tiniest glance from his sharp, unwavering gaze being the only suggestion that he has worried for Ichigo in his absence.

 _Boyfriend_ , some distance part of Ichigo’s mind despairs.

“I guess so,” is what the substitute manages to grumble, still able to feel Hirako’s lewd smile trying to twist the truth from his tongue.

“He does take some getting used to,” Urahara says, checking the teapot to see if it’s possible to serve another round of drinks. “But he means well, I can assure you. Tea?”

Ichigo wonders exactly _whose_ wellbeing Hirako has in mind, but doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah thanks Kisuke,” he says, accepting the tea as a distraction. “Hey, Tōshirō, you kill my dad or something? Where is he?”

“He is a remarkably difficult man to kill, as it turns out,” Tōshirō says.

Ichigo goes to put one sugarcube in his tea and ends up dropping in four.

_Was that a joke?_

“Don’t look too surprised,” Tōshirō deadpans, and though he isn’t smirking around his teacup, his voice definitely is. “No – he’s returned to the clinic to check up on your sisters. I suppose class must be finishing now.”

“You get everything you wanted out of him?” Ichigo asks, cringing at the taste of his drink.

Tōshirō makes a motion that isn’t quite a shrug, but conveys the same uncertainty. “For now, I believe there is nothing to be done. We all made our choices long ago. I’m glad he is well, if nothing else.”

That doesn’t sound like Tōshirō got everything sorted, but Ichigo lets it slide. He might bring it up a little later, once the raw pain of Isshin’s presence has ceased clawing its way through Tōshirō’s arctic fortifications, but for now, Ichigo wracks his brain for a suitable distraction.

A chōkaimon blasting open the living room and swallowing up the coffee table, crockery, started yelps and all certainly does the trick.

“Heya, red-head! Time’s up!” comes the spunky shout from Mera, the asauchi sticking her head through the endless abyss of the metaphysical doorway. One childlike hand reaches out and snatches Ichigo’s collar, and with a strength inhuman and unbefitting of her size, she hauls him out of Urahara’s sitting room and into the passageway beyond.

Amidst the startled scrambling, the clattering of furniture and teacups across the floorboards, and the sensation of squeezing through a Mera-sized gap in between the worlds, Ichigo is sure he hears the sound of Tōshirō setting down his teacup with an infuriated sigh over the chortling tones of Urahara’s laughter. But then, just a tumble and a yelp later, all Ichigo can hear is a ringing in his ears remarkably like that of Nimaiya’s boisterous vocal chords reverberating his welcome back into the Royal Realm.

“Yooooooo, Ichigo! How’s it going?”

Ichigo peels himself up from the gravel and levels the Guard with all of the anger he can muster.

Nimaiya responds with a delighted ‘thumbs up’, taking the glare as a positive sign.

“Great! That is – _Gr8_ , with an eight! I knew you’d get yourself sorted. Up ya get, lazy daisy, we have work to do! How’d you feel any forging your true zanpakuto?”

Ichigo only just refrains from snapping _go to hell_ ; he wants to stay in the God of the Sword’s ‘good books’, no matter how infuriatingly bizarre the man may be. Plus, his hands are itching to hold Zangetsu’s power again, and Ichigo knows that his desire isn’t just his own – his soul burns with it, Quincy-cool and Hollow-hot, but soon, with a single flame of two entities finally balanced into one.

‘Balanced' is, of course, a relative term, as he finds out.

 ** _Mine’s bigger_** , Ichigo’s lookalike drawls, sniggering triumphantly as Nimaiya’s kingdom crumbles beneath the weight of Zangetsu’s true presence.

 _Why does that not surprise me?_ Ichigo mutters dryly. He rolls his eyes at his zanpakuto’s laughter, and then looks to the blade in his left hand, inspecting the weight and feel of the trench knife. It is a blade far smaller than he is used to, and compared to the khyber knife in his right, it’s tiny, but he likes the sensation of having a blade in each hand: he feels complete, an equilibrium reached, and he smiles as the last of Nimaiya’s forging breath blitzes and flares around him.

_Old man?_

_I’m here, Ichigo_ , the Quincy manifestation declares. _For as long as you should desire._

 _Forever_ , Ichigo replies without missing a beat. _You’re stuck with me now._

Zangetsu’s white manifestation laughs, but the elder spirit merely inclines his head from within the depths of their soul, a smile small and stubbled lifting up.

 _Of course_ , he says. _Thank you._

 

 

 

“I hope you like flowers, Kurosaki,” is the greeting Ichigo receives upon returning to his room in Tōshirō’s home, and he blinks, whirling around to spy Ishida’s deadpan expression before a great, flopping mass of a colour-bomb _something_ is thrown over his head. He squawks, scrambling with none of his ingrained shinigami elegance, and whines for long enough to somebody to take pity and untangle him from the fabric.

It’s Chad, of course it is, but even one as loyal as he cannot smother a smile quick enough to escape Ichigo’s glare.

“The kimonos and bedding have arrived,” Ishida adds by way of explanation, motioning to the newly sewn attire that he has donned. “Shutara seems to have rather enjoyed making yours.”

Seeming rehearsed, Chad holds up the kimono in question. The charcoal fabric draws all eyes in the room, Inoue’s brighter than most, and Ichigo blanches at the sight of Shutara’s idea of a _joke_.

“Do you think Shutara-san knows what the camellia symbolism is?” Inoue chimes from the corner, enwrapped in a robe of delicate pinks and creams, but one, Ichigo notes, that does not outwardly claim to expose the more private, _intimate_ feelings of its wearer.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Ishida says, smirking with his devilish amusement. “Here, look – the yellow one means ‘longing’, and the white one means ‘waiting’ – turn it around and have a look for any red ones, would you Sado –?”

Ichigo’s glower could frighten even the sun into hiding. “You’re dead.”

“Oh look,” Ishida continues, blatantly ignoring the grumble, and without bothering to hear if the Quincy is pulling his leg or not, Ichigo _throws_ himself across the room. Enraged bellowing breaks out as they tumble together, grappling in a way unbefitting of the Quincy, but soon laughter and taunts fill the bedroom as they stumble in a hazardous dance, skidding over the futons and kicking duvets across the floor.

The bickering continues, neither teenager willing to back down, and as Chad and Inoue dive out of the way of Ichigo’s two left feet and Ishida’s right, there comes a sound of disbelief from the doorway that prompts them all to whirl around.

“I see that refraining from making the beds was a good decision,” Tōshirō notes, his smooth observation grinding the squabble to a halt. Spluttering for an excuse, Ichigo pulls away from the Quincy and promptly trips over a pillow, missing the rise of two silver eyebrows as he hops across the room.

Ishida emits a startled noise of amusement as he readjusts his glasses and composure into normality, but catching Tōshirō’s expression, he colours slightly, looking faintly chastised. He apologises and then nudges Ichigo to do the same, but Ichigo doesn’t bother, assured in Tōshirō’s good mood. The glower his friend shoots him over thin glasses’ frames is disapproving, but Tōshirō proves him right, merely smiling away the apology.

“It’s no bother,” the Guard reassures, faintly pleased by the banter. “This place has been quiet for so long, it’s nice to have a little bit of chaos.”

 _You hear that Kurosaki?_ Ishida’s sideways glance seems to say. _Chaos_.

Ichigo can only smile, warmed by his knowledge of Tōshirō’s good-will.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” the Guard goes on. “Hikifune has insisted on splurging tonight, so I hope you’re all hungry.”

“ _Splurging_?” Ichigo echoes over the sound of Inoue’s chirpy agreement.

“My cooking skills are apparently ‘unsatisfactory’,” Tōshirō grouses, sighing heavily and ignoring Ichigo’s teasing tone.

Ichigo’s grin is wicked. “Can you reach even your kitchen cupboards?”

His friends managed to hide their laughter with much better success, but then, Ichigo wasn’t attempting to hide it anyway.

 _Oh ha ha_ , says Tōshirō’s eye roll, his tongue too polite to lower the conversation to sarcastic banter in the presence of Inoue, Chad, and Ishida.

“I assure you, I am _quite_ capable. Now – I see that Shutara-dono has outdone herself again. Are the kimonos satisfactory?”

“Yeah, they’re great,” Ichigo replies, being the only one not sniggering. He shoots his friends with a _shut up you guys_ expression, hoping that they’ll get the message and that Tōshirō won’t, and they thoughtfully quieten down, sucking in their lips and chewing on their tongues.

“I’m glad,” Tōshirō says. He looks a little out of his depth all of a sudden, as if fearing that he has interrupted a private conversation. Teal eyes flicker across the room as though they can perceive an awkward pause in the air, and then he seems to come to a decision, nodding to himself. “I will pass on the appreciation to Shutara-dono, then. There are matters concerning your training that must be discussed at dinner, but they can wait for now. I apologise for imposing.”

Ichigo opens his mouth to say something, to reassure that he could never be imposing, but Tōshirō has already disappeared in a flurry of beautiful, yukata pleats and oceanic blues. Absentmindedly, Ichigo realises that he has changed out of his tea-stained yukata into a robe of pleated cherry blossoms and forget-me-nots that only Shutara could have made, and as the door clicks shut behind the Guard’s hasty exit, the substitute finds himself at a loss for what to say.

“Go after him,” Chad says in his rumbling tone.

“But –”

“We’ll tidy up here,” Inoue says.

“But –”

“ _Go_ , Kurosaki,” Ishida snaps. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? All teasing aside, of course.”

Ichigo clicks his mouth shut. “Yeah,” he says, somewhat helplessly, casting his gaze across the room. His friends look back resolutely, each urging him on in their own way – a smile from Inoue, a nod from Chad, and a typically exasperated _honestly, Kurosaki_ glower from Ishida. Ichigo nods, says, _yeah_ , one more time, and then races after the lingering chill Hyorinmaru’s dust, snowflake footsteps on the floor.

 

 

 

He has never been that good at tracking reiryoku; Tōshirō’s dragon’s lair of a home turns him around. Ichigo huffs, growls and makes a fool of himself in front of the hell butterfly flocks dotted about the hallways, but they seem not mind his anxious fretting. Rather, they watch, a thousand guardian eyes observing all, and then seem to reach a decision amongst their twittering, bustling selves.

Ichigo isn’t privy to their unimaginable cognitions, but when he turns the next corridor and feels a clustering of the butterflies settling down on his shoulders, in his pockets, in his hair, he does not question their actions, just as he does not question how their silver shimmers seem to point him on his way.

 

 

 

Ichigo isn’t sure how to phrase the mess his heart is making of his chest. He prides himself in being straight-forward, but he isn’t _that_ straight-forward, so to speak; this isn’t a cheesy romance novel, and he doesn’t have the words for lavish declarations of confidence. All he has is his hope, a chance, and a tongue so twisted that he’ll probably end up blurting something stupid –

( _Hey Tōshirō, I kinda wanna snog you. Also you look kinda pretty fucking hot in that kimono, just sayin’_ )

But then he opens the door to the lakeside boardwalk and finds that it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Oh,” is what he ends up saying, and as the hell butterflies scatter up into the skyline like the storm of his thoughts billowing away, Tōshirō and Hikifune turn towards him.

Their conversation fades away with their surprise.

Ichigo is just as disappointed as he is relieved.

“Are you alright?” Tōshirō asks, oblivious to the _ohmygod_ expression that moulds the rounded cheer of Hikifune’s face into shock as they take in Ichigo’s breathless, flustered demeanor.

“Huh – oh, yeah,” Ichigo blubber, and some awful emotion must fracture across his expression then, for Hikifune emits a girly squealing sound and sing-songs –

“Dinner! Oh my! I should _definitely_ be getting back inside.”

Before hurrying back into the house with a smile that _dares_ them not to believe her pretence.

Ichigo is grateful for her sheer, _mortifying_ perception, but the mood has shifted now – his heart has lulled, refusing to admit to the turmoil that it bleeds – and he finds himself shaking his head when Tōshirō raises his eyebrows in question.

“Nah,” he says, unable to stop himself when faced with such honest concern. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tōshirō doesn’t look convinced, but he does look calmer now, likely soothed by whatever advice Hikifune had offered when Ichigo could not.

“If you’re sure,” he says, leaving it open for explanation. He tilts his head, asking where his words cannot, and his reiatsu glimmers around him, casting him in silver against the afternoon glow of gold.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ichigo replies, grinning back at the sun like the _goddamn idiot_ he is.

He doesn’t swallow his tongue, but it’s a pretty close call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review as you go~
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH, as ever, for your patience with this :) The next chapter will include more of dealing with Ichigo's shit, Royal Guards, and FEELINGS :D


	10. Ichigo V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough for your patience.
> 
> Please enjoy!

His friends have tidied the room when Ichigo manages to will himself back into the house. They also appear to have been _talking_ about him if their hurried hush and their too-innocent eyes are anything to go by, but more than anything, it is their expectant expressions that makes Ichigo groan.

“You are the _world’s biggest_ moron,” Ishida remarks unsympathetically, and Ichigo flips him the bird as he slouches into the bedroom and collapses into a humiliated heap against the door.

“That bad?” Chad rumbles, scanning the bemoaning ginger for any life-threatening signs of emotional trauma with an attentive gaze.

Ichigo huffs, puffing out his fringe like a tantrum, and Inoue is upon him in the blink of an eye, fretful and cooing and trying her hardest to hug away his heartache. She blubbers some form of apology - or something - and Ichigo pats her back awkwardly, gratified and mortified for his friend’s open affection.

“I guess I missed my chance to say anything,” he grumbles, cursing Hikifune and cursing Fate.

“Well at least he didn’t shoot you down,” Ishida notes. “You’ll just have to try again later.”

“I think I’ve lost my courage,” Ichigo moans, and his friends are sympathetic for an entire _two seconds_ before pulling him to his feet. Chad presents the charcoal kimono and Ishida gives him a critical eye, so Ichigo relents under their direction and begins to get changed.

“Think of it this way,” Ishida continues, apparently volunteered as the voice of reason for today. “Shutara’s got a clue, and if you wear this, he’ll definitely get one. Plus, the marksmanship is something to be admired.”

“You should ask her for tips,” Inoue says cheerfully, having averted her eyes as Ichigo slides himself into the thick layers of camellia-pleated smoke.

Ishida splutters, pushing his glasses nervously. “She is quite formidable.”

“That’s Ishida-talk for ‘she’s terrifying’,” Ichigo supplies, earning himself a swat from the pure-blooded Quincy. Laughing, his secures the [obi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Obi_\(sash\)#Men.27s_obi) behind him, and then thanks his friend as Chad adjusts his collar.

“And ‘I’ve lost my courage’ is Ichigo-talk for ‘I’m going to tell Hitsugaya-san how I feel by the end of the week’,” Ishida counters, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Chad’s concurring noise does little to pacify Ichigo’s resulting glower.

“No it’s not,” the substitute insists, glancing between his friends weakly. “It’s _not_.”

“Yes it is,” Inoue argues, bouncing towards them. She spins Ichigo around, fussing over his appearance in ways the two boys cannot bring themselves to, and her smile is as bright as the detail in her kimono, pink and sunflower gold. “We can even get the hell butterflies involved!”

“What is this - mission impossible?” Ichigo groans, helpless but to waver under Inoue’s blissful smile. His friends’ resulting laughter lifts his mood somewhat; they sound confident, entirely _sure_ that admitting his feelings will bring happiness, not ruin, and Ichigo quirks a smile despite himself. They have never led him astray before, and Ichigo supposes if even _Ishida_ is pushing him to talk to Tōshirō, then maybe fortune will be shining on him after all.

(Or maybe they’ll just all deluded).

“End of the week,” the Quincy insists, wiping specks of dirt from his glasses. His tone is firm and final, and Ichigo feels as if a thousand arrows of blue lightning and fire are daring him to argue.

He doesn’t, wise enough to know that Ishida’s aim is true.

“End of the weak,” he parrots, and at his friends’ decisive nods, he wills the ground to swallow him whole.

 

 

 

Training begins in earnest come the morning. Much to his displeasure, Ichigo ends up trudging over to Nimaiya’s kingdom just shy of dawn, Zangetsu’s two blades heavy across his back and hip, but Nimaiya, at any least, is joyous despite the hour. His exuberant greeting is a painful reminder of Isshin’s wake-up calls, but Ichigo has dealt with his father long enough not to let the Guard’s happy-go-lucky hollering bother him too much.

He can see why Tōshirō steers clear of the God of the Sword though.

“ _Relax_ ,” Nimaiya says, laughing as to notices Ichigo’s uneasy approach. He clamps Ichigo on the shoulder, guiding him through the reaches of his realm with a surer pace, seemingly unfazed by the substitute’s distrust. “No booby-traps this time, I swear. Hitsugaya-chan wants you and your friends put through a crash-course, and _oh_ , I am only too happy to help. I’d say you lucked out with me though!”

Ichigo isn’t sure about that one. Chad, the luckiest of them all, has remained in Tōshirō’s winding kingdom for the day, but Ishida had flat-out refused to leave his bed this morning in fear of what Shutara may inflict upon him. Inoue had been the most troubled of them all, dutifully resigning herself to training under Hyōsube’s watchful eye. Hikifune had gone with her - for moral support, apparently - but maybe Tōshirō isn’t the only Guard who worries about their Commander’s bulbous smile and dark, relentless gaze.

“He will be able to instruct Inoue-san where I cannot,” Tōshirō had explained when questioned, and Ichigo had nodded a reluctant acceptance at extending his trust to Tōshirō’s comrades. Kirinji _did_ manage to restore Tsubaki without too much difficulty, but the man taught Retsu Unohana everything she knows, apparently, so Ichigo didn’t find himself as surprised - or as overjoyed - as Inoue to hear the little spirit’s colourful cursing upon reforming. Regardless of any offensive power Inoue be capable of now, Ichigo knows she would rather not use it, vowing to keep a close eye on Inoue’s reiryoku throughout the day.

(Hyōsube’s fucking _terrifying_ and Ichigo would _not_ want to meet him in a dark alley. Ever. Give him Kenpachi any day).

"So did you get it all sorted with your zanpakuto then, Ichi-chan?" Nimaiya asks.

"Yeah," Ichigo says, materialising both of Zangetsu's great blades in his hands. They are still a strange weight, vastly different to the single over-sized blade that he is used to, but the novelty has yet to wear off. He doesn't think it ever will, truly; how could he ever grow tired of wielding the true embodiment of his soul? To have Zangetsu completed, whole, balanced in his hands is wonderful, and Ichigo wouldn't change any of the hardships that brought him (them) to this point.

He decided not to name them separately, in the end. As promised, he hadn't resorted to the internet for suggestions (being up in the King's Realm definitely helped with that one), and had instead thought long and hard about what he would name the two blades. Zangetsu's two forms had been oddly quiet as the hours ticked on, providing no suggestions of their own, and maybe that had been why Ichigo's thoughts had ultimately turned to _why_ he was trying to name them in the first place, rather than _what_.

Zangetsu is Zangetsu. Why would he name them anything else?

He doesn't say any of this to Nimaiya; all-knowing God of the Sword or not, Nimaiya has seen enough of Ichigo's soul for a lifetime.

"Great!" the Guard says, rolling his tongue. He shoots Ichigo another 'thumbs up', and the substitute rolls his eyes. "Then we can get started on the real stuff! I take it you've never wielded dual blades before, huh Ichi-chan?"

"No," Ichigo admits, glancing down at his zanpakuto. The truth is, as much as he revels in Zangetsu's true form, he really has no idea how to wield them. His body is attuned to a single blade; his instincts and reflexes are sharp and refined, but not for this. He has no doubt that he will learn - Zangetsu will not allow otherwise - but adapting what he has already learnt for such a different fighting style will be tricky.

They have a week in the Royal Realm - slightly less, now. Will it be enough time?

"I can teach you the basics," Nimaiya says, adopting a serious expression, and one that sends shivers crawling down Ichigo’s spine. "I'm not a dual wielder either, obviously, but I've had years enough to pick up a few things. You might wanna think about getting some proper training though, sooner rather than later."

Yes, Ichigo will need it if the Soul Society are to go to war.

"Where from?" he asks, knowing that his resources are limited. Kisuke probably won’t be able to help him with this, so if nothing can be gained from the Royal Guard, Ichigo will have to turn to the Soul Society and hope that someone there will be willing to throw him the ropes. "I take it none of you guys use two blades?"

Nimaiya shakes his head, and the grin that creeps across his face is all teeth and gleeful sin. The Guards of the King’s Realm are beings of contradiction, and _christ_ if they don’t freak Ichigo out. "Nah,” the God of Sword sing-songs, winking behind his daffodil-yellow frames. “But I can think of two people who do."

Shunsui Kyoraku and Jūshirō Ukitake.

"You think they'd train me?" Ichigo asks, doubtful. They're powerful men - busy men, renowned and untouchable. Ichigo holds them both in high regard, but he can't imagine either of them having the time to take a student with a war upon them.

"Who knows?" Nimaiya says. "You'll just have to ask, won't you? Ain't no shame in that. Don’t ask, don’t get - eh, Ichi-chan?”

Vividly, and with no small amount of horror, Ichigo wonders if the God moonwalking before him was once the world’s creepiest elementary school teacher in a previous life. As it sensing this terrible thought, Nimaiya laughs a cackling laugh and clicks his fingers in time, dancing a little more before beckoning Ichigo over with a gun-shaped hand.

"Come now then, Ichi-chan," Nimaiya calls, continuing to wiggle his fingers when the substitute refuses to budge. "No need to be shy - I’ve already seen you at your lowest, haven’t I?"

He chortles.

 _Help me_ , Ichigo despairs, but he adjusts his grip on Zangetsu's dual hilts and prepares to be beaten into the ground.

 

 

 

Tōshirō’s glacial presence shimmers distantly when Ichigo returns to the most northern point, but Ichigo is too tired to give much thought to it. He crawls through the labyrinth of a kingdom, slipping occasionally on the patches - the _lakes_ , more like - of ice that isolate the kingdom from its surrounds, but finding his way will never be a challenge with the hell butterflies that flock the skies. Shunpo definitely isn’t an option at the moment; his legs are screaming bloody murder after Nimaiya's "basic" training session, and flopping down into the snow and lying there until a passer-by takes pity on him is a _sorely_ tempting idea. The risk of hypothermia staves away the merits of that plan; Tōshirō wouldn't be impressed if his charge froze to death on his doorstep, and having been witness to the Guard’s tempestuous temper before, disappointing Tōshirō is the last thing Ichigo wants. Fortunately, Tōshirō’s hell butterflies seem quite keen to keep Ichigo in their sights, so at the very least if he _does_ face-plant the tundra, the collective conscious that dominates that sky will know where he’s fallen.

An eerie quiet has settled in the house when he enters; Inoue and Ishida must still be out and about around the realm (probably getting their arses handed to them too), and Tōshirō and Chad are no doubt training where they won’t be disturbed. Used to coming home to an empty house with the end of his early classes, his sisters still at school and his father buried somewhere in the clinic, Ichigo isn’t particularly fussed by either way - but Tōshirō’s home is larger than the Kurosaki house, and the silence seems to consume the rooms and corridors. Introverted though Tōshirō may be, a home as lifeless as this must be a solitary one: the hell butterflies, then, may be company more than contrivance, and Ichigo leaves one of the doors open to allow their fluttering in and out.

After showering, he sets about exploring the kitchen for something to eat. Nimaiya had thrown an energy bar or five at his head throughout the afternoon, but now that the shower has washed the last of Ichigo's energy away and left him feeling like a warm, gooey, fluffed up labrador, he needs something more substantial. Vaguely recollecting where Tōshirō keeps his tea, Ichigo busies himself with opening cupboards until he finds what he's looking for. It turns out that Tōshirō doesn't keep much in the way of food in the house - which is ridiculous, really, what does he eat? (When does he eat, more like, he's so thin) - but there's some rice and other base ingredients; enough to be put to use. Having really only wanted a sandwich or something similar, Ichigo figures _what the hell_ and starts clattering about on the hobs to make a meal worthy of feeding everyone when they return.

He's not a great cook, but god forbid Yuzu let her brother not know how to feed himself.

Somewhere in between the teapot boiling for a second time and Ichigo almost dropping an entire stack of plates on the floor (that would certainly liven the place up), Tōshirō and Chad amble in. Chad, to Ichigo’s sheer lack of surprise, looks hardly worse for wear, but he is bruised and aching if the way he trudges through the kitchen is any indication. Tōshirō seems pleased though - more than pleased, Ichigo would say, especially when Ichigo hands him a cup of tea and announces that dinner is in the works - and if Ichigo colours faintly to match the Guard's scarlet ears then, well, Chad isn't around to say anything about it.

He could just - kiss Tōshirō now.

"I see that Nimaiya-dono has left you in one piece," the Guard notes, examining the meal with something akin to marvel tinging the edges of his reiatsu. Ichigo watches the leisurely pace from the table, making so much noise as he slurps his drink that he might as well be drowning himself in it, and wonders, briefly, when he had come to be so adept at reading the waves of Tōshirō’s soul.

"Yeah, it was - err - good," Ichigo replies, coughing around the sheer _burn_ of the drink (the sheer burn of that _lie_ ). Ambivalent about the claim, Tōshirō raises an eyebrow as he comes to sit opposite the substitute, and Ichigo splutters: "Well - you know. Got my arse handed to me by a five year old wearing neon yellow sunglasses, but it's cool."

Tōshirō - laughs.

Pride quirks Ichigo’s lips into a smile. "How’d Chad do?"

"Very well. His endurance is admirable and his attacks are strong, although a swifter opponent would find them easy to avoid. I'm hoping to improve his agility so that his close-combat abilities excel; he could be very adaptable, if he put his mind to it, but I believe that it is in defence that he will triumph."

Ichigo concurs, pleased with Tōshirō’s assessment. That Chad's training will be focused on assuming a defensive role isn’t a complete surprise - strategically, it makes sense. Ichigo and Ishida already cover the short to mid-range and long-distance combat, and Inoue's the perfect medical support. A wall as enduring and immoveable as Chad is exactly what they need, and it is with this thought in mind that Ichigo realises -

"You're training us as a team?"

Tōshirō replies _of course_ as though he never considered anything else, and this time, Ichigo is unable to mask his shock. “You are a team, are you not?” the Guard continues, eyebrows pinching just slightly. “Your friends and I may be little more than strangers, but I can’t imagine that they will allow you to fight in this war by yourself. Am I wrong?”

Ichigo opens his mouth - then shuts it again, glad that the others are here to witness this moment of stupidity.

“No, you’re right. Yeah, they wouldn’t... I guess I just didn’t think…”

Didn’t think _what_ , he isn’t sure, but Tōshirō smiles as though he understands.

“Yes, you didn’t,” the Guard says, sipping his tea. “As they would say.”

Ichigo grins, feeling a rush of affection. He could say it now - say anything, say everything he’s been meaning to say; the house is quiet, time bobbing along in teacup slurps and kitchen pattering, rice boiling away, and Ichigo is at ease. Tōshirō looks knackered, on the other hand, although he hides it better than Chad, but there is an air of accomplishment about him that seems to shimmer in the steam of his drink - his reiatsu, a ring of frost about the moon, haloing it in a diamond glow.

That or it’s sweat, but Tōshirō is still ridiculously attractive either way.

As Fate is _not_ on his side, just as Ichigo plucks up the courage to say something, the lull of the kitchen is broken. Inoue skips in happy, healthy, and seemingly _unharmed_ from her day of training, all thoughts of romance are shoved from Ichigo’s mind as equal parts relief and _manic terror_ flood his chest.

“You're _alive,_ ” he blurts, as subtle as a brick crashing through a window. “I mean, how did it go?”

Inoue pauses in the kitchen, politely declining Tōshirō’s offer of tea. “Well, I think!” is how she sums up what must have been a _gruelling_ and _terrifying_ experience with the shadowy commander. Despite sounding a little uncertain, she smiles at them with almost all of her usual cheer. “Hyōsube-san is nice.”

Ichigo and Tōshirō exchange a flabbergast stare.

“He’s very focused though,” Inoue adds, as if trying to rectify her previous statement. She can't seem to decide on an adjective, but not once does she settle on _petrifying._ “He's a little unsettling, but it’s all right! Is it okay if I have a bath, Hitsugaya-san?”

“Of course,” Tōshirō says, picking his jaw up faster than Ichigo. “Although, Yasutora-san is showering currently, but I’m sure he’ll be done in a moment. I can show you where I keep the clean towels, if you’d like?”

“Thank you, but it’s okay, I’ll find them,” Inoue chimes, furiously shaking her head. Glancing between them, she seems to have noticed that she interrupted _a moment_ , and apologies quickly before blurting _towels!_ and dashing out of the room.

Toshiro puts his teacup down very, very slowly.

Ichigo has forgotten how to breathe.

“ _Nice_ and _unsettling_?” he wheezes, unable to wrap his mind around such a glaring juxtaposition. “Sheesh, she sees the best in everyone.”

“She is something of a marvel,” Tōshirō agrees.

They’re still sitting in a stupefied silence  when Chad returns from his shower, and he takes one look at their matching expressions before dutifully assuming watch over dinner.

Down the corridor, Inoue can be heard singing over the sound of the rushing shower spray.

 

 

 

The following morning dawns just as dreadfully early, but Ichigo wouldn't describe himself as ‘awake’ as he slobs out of the bedroom in search of the bathroom. In fact, he doesn't particularly have the cognitive capabilities of describing himself at all until he's drunk a cup of coffee or five, but unlike Ichigo’s friends, Toshiro seems unaware of this as he approaches the substitute and his lion-worthy yawn.

“Good morning. Breakfast is in the kitchen, should you desire it,” he says, jumping straight to the point. “Would you prefer Nimaiya-dono or I to undertake your kido training?”

Sleepy-eyed (sleepy- _headed_ ), Ichigo blinks dozily before grunting some manner of a reply, his mind already drifting back to bed at the lull in his movements. The shower seems so much further now that Tōshirō stands in the way, perfect as ever, as wide awake and chirpy as the winter’s white dawn, and the Guard seems to recognise this as he takes in Ichigo’s sloppy appearance.

“Ah. Forgive me. Inoue-san was up quite early, so I just assumed…”

“Coffee,” Ichigo says by way of explanation, yawning the last syllable. “Err, but Momo actually taught me some kido, so I'm not completely hopeless.”

(He likes to think).

“Momo Hinamori?” Tōshirō asks, his surprise _hopefully_ at the mention of the lieutenant, rather than Ichigo’s skill.

“Mmhmm,” Ichigo says lazily, debating the pros and cons of showering. “Your sister, right? You know, she was really happy to see you. I think she'd appreciate it if you wrote more letters.”

The Guard colours faintly and ducks his head. “I never know what to say,” he admits, and Ichigo mentally slaps himself, trying to stay awake as the conversation diverts into heartfelt.

“Tell her about us,” he replies, meaning _all of us_ and _training_ , but realising belatedly how it sounds. Momo, certainly, would be thrilled to hear about _them_ , and Ichigo flushes; he's definitely going to need the shower _now_. “I'm sure she'd have a good laugh at how you beat my arse with kido - like - blindfolded and with one arm tied behind your back.”

“You _do_ certainly need caffeine in the morning, don't you? I haven't done anything like that.”

“Nah, but you _will_ ,” Ichigo says with a smile. “Chad’ll find it funny, at any rate.”

Toshiro smiles too. “Oh, don't worry. I’ll be sure to include Yasutora-san in the target range.”

Then he excuses himself, and Ichigo watches him go.

Despite being notably more awake after showering, he still almost walks into the cup of coffee that Tōshirō waves under his nose. It is, in Ichigo’s defence, presented at _chest-height_ rather than any height that Ichigo might easily see, but Tōshirō still raises his sarcastic eyebrow to question Ichigo’s apparently captain-class degree of spatial awareness. Ichigo laughs, mumbles his thanks, and engrosses himself so deeply on mopping up the spillage that he almost misses Tōshirō’s question, such a quiet and uncertain thing as it is:

“She’s okay… right?”

Ichigo slurps the drink noisily, desperate for the caffeine, and then freezes at how _small_ his friend appears. Their previous conversation fazes back into his mind, bits and pieces of heartache amidst his sleepy concentration.

“Yeah, she's getting better,” he reassures, seeing a knot loosen from Toshiro’s shoulders. “I know she’ll still like those letters though.”

Dark, _pleased_ teal eyes soften. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

( _Thank you_ , Matsumoto had said).

“Nah,” Ichigo says. “She helped me too.”

 

 

 

Nimaiya is no less merciful than the day before. Yet, as the afternoon rolls in and Ichigo unwinds from the Guard’s idea of torture by meditating with Zangetsu ( ** _what’ve you come whining to us for, moron, just sock him_ ** / _I can’t believe you just said ‘sock him’_ / **_shut the fuck up_** ), he comes to the realisation that he feels stronger already - exhausted, without a doubt, but tougher, faster, and calmer.

“That'll be your bond with your zanpakuto,” Nimaiya explains, twiddling the little umbrella sticking out of his drink. _Pretentious_ doesn’t even begin to cover the Guard’s smirk, but somehow Ichigo refrains from glowering at the six-foot toddler and his strawberry smoothie. “Nice to know your true zanpakuto, isn’t it? And, of course, the reishi up here helps.”

“The reishi?”

Nimaiya slurps loudly. “It's heavier up here, didn't ya notice? You'll be used to it by now - although, you should go over to Ichibē’s some time. It's madness over there.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Ichigo grumbles, and Nimaiya laughs.

Today, he’s the last to return to Tōshirō’s kingdom. A discussion passionate enough to be accompanied by _diagrams_ is taking place at the kitchen table when Ichigo slobs past; he lifts a hand in greeting, reluctant to disturb them, and receives a notably more polite response from Tōshirō and Chad. Assuming that Chad’s day of training has yet to finish, Ichigo leaves them to it, deciding to check up on Inoue and Ishida and their progress with the other Guards.

He finds Inoue cocooned in one of Tōshirō’s many book-dedicated rooms; she’s in the corner, mountains of tomes and scrolls piled around her, and if Ichigo hadn’t heard her sneeze when he cracked open the door into the claustrophobic cupboard of a room, he would never had spotted her buried within the texts. Fortunately, the dust of long-forgotten pages gives her away, the cloud of murk accompanied by another snivel and cough.

“Hey Inoue, you’re not doing _classwork_ , are you?” Ichigo asks, squeezing himself into the box room. Judging the teetering pillars of books to be too precarious to navigate, he lingers in the doorway instead of joining his friend on the floor.

Inoue perks up at the sound of his voice, emitting a sound that may have been a noise of surprise, or possibly another squeaking sneeze. “Oh, Kurosaki-kun! How was your day? I’m doing a bit of research for Hyōsube-san.”

“A bit?” Ichigo parrots, raising an eyebrow at the den she has made herself. Cushions and pillows made of hard-backed novels and pointed edges cannot be comfortable, but Inoue only has a smile for the nest of knowledge she has created.

“I think I got a little distracted,” she mumbles, and Ichigo laughs at the rosy tint to her cheeks.

Low the sun has drifted below the horizon when Ichigo ventures outside; pink-tinged, the trees of Tōshirō’s kingdom shadow the house and the lake that isolates it, and the dusky evening is peaceful despite the Quincy arrows that disturb it, jagged bursts of electric-blue crackling across the water. A particularly charred tree in the distance appears to be Ishida’s target; it’s smouldering ever so slightly, its bark black and torn, but it’s a surprisingly easy target, all things considered, for such a proficient bowman. Concluding that Ishida is probably _venting_ rather than training, Ichigo flops down onto the decking with a pained groan and makes himself comfortable, and hardly a minute passes before the evening rings with tinkers and chimes, and a small flock of hell butterflies flutter over to join him.

“And Tōshirō said you wouldn’t like me,” Ichigo mumbles, not moving an inch as the little creatures clamber over him. Their wings shimmer like starlight as they settle, and Ichigo smiles, wondering what it is about him that attracts them so.

After watching Ishida for a few minutes, Ichigo figures he might as well face the music. It’s not in the Quincy’s nature to initiate conversation anyway, so if any talking is going to be done, Ichigo is going to have to breach the topic. Waiting until the archer has lowered his weapon, Ichigo draws attention to himself; pausing before nocking another arrow, Ishida glances over the rim of his glasses at the sound of his name, scowl deepening in the electric pulse of his bow.

Ichigo beckons him over, careful not to nudge the butterflies. “Come here. I need to tell you something.”

“Greetings like that do not often bode well, Kurosaki,” the Quincy archer replies, but he dutifully abandons his training with a flick of his wrist; the bow crackles and fizzes once more, and then fades from sight as Ishida approaches the decking. At Ichigo’s gesturing pat, he sits down beside the shinigami, the knit of his eyebrows deepening his befuddlement with every moment that passes. This is uncharacteristic for them both - sitting together, talking like this - but Ichigo ensures that he smiles at Ishida’s growing unease.

“Relax, it’s nothing bad. Well - depends how you look at it, I guess.”

 _Reassuring_ , Ishida’s eyebrows deadpan. “Do get on with it, Kurosaki,” he says in a tone just as bland.

“Yeah, yeah, sheesh. It’s about my parents - and yours, actually,” Ichigo begins, figuring _what the hell_ and jumping straight to the point. There is still the possibility that this isn’t going to be news to Ishida, but either way, Ichigo has had enough of lies to bother sugarcoating anything. “Did you know that your dad and my mum were betrothed?”

Judging by Ishida’s flabbergast expression, he did not. “But -”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ichigo presses on, reading the question straight from the drop of Ishida’s jaw. “Mum’s a Quincy. Dad’s a shinigami. I guess that makes me half? My mum was taken in my your family when she was a teenager, so I get that we’re not _really_ related, but -” He shrugs; as far as he’s concerned, Ishida is practically family already, but that’s not the important thing here: “Thought you’d want to know that you’re not the _last_ anymore, unless I don’t count.”

Few things are capable of leaving Uryu Ishida speechless - but this, it seems, is one of them. “You _and_ your sisters,” he says after an extraordinarily long moment, and Ichigo blinks, astonished at the air of calm that the Quincy has maintained. Apparently _freaking out_ is below him: the same, however, cannot be said for Ichigo once he comprehends what Ishida means.

“Holy _shit_ , _my sisters_! _I need to tell my sisters_.”

He _launches_ onto his feet, scattering the hell butterflies that have collected around him. They scramble around in panic, some of them _bopping_ against his head in indignation, and Ichigo swears he almost squishes a few as he fumbles over the decking.

“For god’s _sake_ Kurosaki, sit down,” Ishida sighs, yanking the flailing shinigami down again. “You can’t tell them yet - unless you plan on explaining everything about the shinigami as well? It’s going to take longer than a quick trip back to Karakura to tell them everything; sit down with them once your training here is done.”

“He’s right,” Chad says, rumbling deep from the doorway, and Ichigo whirls around at the sound of his voice, _definitely_ whacking a butterfly or two this time.

“Shit,” he hisses, wincing at the butterflies’ collective anger. He hastens to rearrange the butterflies back onto their feet, hoping frantically that accidentally squishing them to death isn’t possible. “Sorry, sorry - please don’t tell Tōshirō - sorry.”

Chad laughs, and Ichigo sticks out his tongue. “Sheesh. How long have you been standing there?”

“Oh, since the beginning!” Inoue says, poking her head around Chad’s broad physique. “You and Ishida-kun never have heart-to-hearts! We were worried.”

“It wasn’t a _heart-to-heart_!” Ishida splutters.

“Was it _that_ weird?” Ichigo blurts.

Inoue seem to even think about it. “Not as weird as you two being brothers,” she coos, and both Ishida and Ichigo squawk.

“ _We’re not brothers_!” they exclaim.

“You _could_ have been,” Inoue counters, her eyes shining. “How sweet would that have been?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Chad mumbles, gently shattering whatever strange fantasy Inoue is currently considering. “If Kurosaki-san and Ishida-san had gotten married -”

Ichigo is _very quick_ to put a stop to that train of thought. “No, _no_ , let’s _not_ talking about our parents getting married,” he despairs, empathising with the micro expression of horror that twists Ishida’s pale features into something gaunt and grey. “ _Please_.”

Although they laugh, Chad and Inoue kindly refrain from saying anything further.

Ishida breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s not a scenario I want to imagine.”

“Tell me about it,” Ichigo bemoans.

 

 

 

Beyond gruelling days of training and long, weary nights of uninterrupted slumber, bodies aching, eyes so heavy that even dawn struggles to raise them, there is actually little to _do_ in the Royal Realm. By midweek, the Karakura teenagers are _willing_ to catch up with their classwork - eager, even, as they flip open notepads and coax the hell butterflies into sharing their information with hugs (Inoue), sweets (Chad), and increasing threats of violence (Ishida). By the time the dainty creatures are dutifully reciting trigonometry and circle theorem in their teacher’s laborious tones, Ichigo fears of going stir-crazy in this desolate, limitless realm. Training is all well and good, but there appears very little for the Guards (and guests) to do in their _off_ time; how has Tōshirō kept himself entertained during his years as a Guard? The Soul Society, at least, has bars and shops and access to the Human World, but for all the possibilities that _could be_ in the King’s domain, His Guards are the most isolated of them all.

(“Maybe that’s why they’re all _bonkers_ ,” Ishida mutters, and Inoue swats him).

“I often spend my recess in books,” Tōshirō explains when the matter arises, and though this doesn’t surprise Ichigo (he’s _seen_ the bookshelves bestrewn with fiction, non-fiction, and all manner of scientific papers alike), _you must do something_ else _for fun, right?_ he asks, sure that even a bookworm to Tōshirō’s standards would need respite elsewhere.

“Well I,” begins the Guard, considering the question - or his answer, perhaps - for a moment. Ichigo has long-since grown used to Tōshirō’s deliberation, cogs of a mastermind clicking endlessly, and takes another bite of his lunch as the Guard’s shimmering reiatsu lightens from blue to an ivory joy.

( _Does Tōshirō make it snow when he’s happy_ , Ichigo wonders, both hating and adoring how stupidly, undeniably _in love_ he is with the dip of Tōshirō’s brow, the quirk of his lips in thought, and the pitter-patting of icicle fingertips against the tabletop).

“I savour any time I can have with Hyorinmaru,” Tōshirō says, eyes flicking to the place where the zanpakuto should be. In this dimension, he is scarcely seen with it, and this bothers Ichigo just as much as it seems to bother Tōshirō. “We often meditate or explore the far reaches of this realm.”

Ichigo can understand that, but it pains him to think that Tōshirō’s relationship with his zanpakuto may have suffered with his promotion to the Royal Realm. Truly, Ichigo knows little about the relationships of other shinigami and their zanpakuto, and he knows even _less_ about the norms and customs of such a bond, but Ichigo is Zangetsu just as Zangetsu is Ichigo, and their time apart all those weeks ago were some of the most agonising of Ichigo’s life.

“I’d like to see the rest of this place,” Ichigo replies, motioning vaguely with his chopsticks. Beyond the Guards’ five kingdoms, he has no idea what could be out there; even the whopping great big structural impossibility of the palace is unknown to him, but maybe entry into that is a privilege given only to the Guards. “But everything's _floating_ , so…”

He shrugs, meaning _what can you do?_  and something in Tōshirō seems light up, a spark of an idea igniting his wintry soul. Ichigo blinks, his own reiryoku afire, burning incandescent in response, and he hopes to _god_ Tōshirō doesn’t notice how his crystallised glee is fuel to Ichigo’s blaze.

“I don’t suppose I’ve ever shown you my bankai, have I?” the Guard says, and all Ichigo is capable of replying is _err, no?_

His subsequent reaction to Hyorinmaru’s released form - once they trek outside to privacy, of course - is hardly more eloquent than that.

“Bankai,” Tōshirō breathes, mouth smiling around the frozen word, and as the world within Hyorinmaru’s hazardous ring frosts to sub-zero, the moisture in the very air itself glinting and splintering and shattering to snow, ice begins to serpentine from the straight of Tōshirō’s spine, cracking and creeping and _growing_ into a magnificent shape.

Ichigo would pick his jaw up from the ground, but the ice has probably frozen it there.

“ _Wings_.”

Tōshirō laughs - he actually has the _gall_ to laugh at Ichigo’s stupor as though he hasn’t just half-turned _into a dragon_ , and says, “Yes, and a tail.”

The appendage in question sweeps around, the great muscle of _ice_ gliding easily across the earth.

“My god,” Ichigo wheezes, flabbergast catching in his throat. He needs to sit down - he needs to sit down and _touch the tail_ \- and in the next breath he tumbles to his knees, tapping the frigid limb with a tentative hand. It’s solid, and cold, and _real_ , and while Ichigo had known that Hyorinmaru could soar, he never imagined anything like this.

“Holy shit, can you _fly?_ ”

With a heaving flap of his wings, ice grinding together, the tips catching in the sun, Tōshirō takes flight, the _whoosh_ of arctic air beneath him blowing Ichigo’s awed exclamation away.

He loops far above the tree-line a few times, twisting and turning in mastery over the sky, and when he comes back down, beastly talons of icicles chinking gently in his descent, Ichigo finally manages to salvage his jaw.

“I can see why you didn’t release it in the Soul Society,” he gasps, awe-struck by the magnificent form. Tōshirō’s wings curls around him, seeming quite cumbersome beyond the reach of the skies, but this doesn't detract from the rush of wonder that Ichigo feels.

“It’s not very subtle, is it?” the substitute says.

Tōshirō adopts that awkward sort of quiet from before - the one that urges him to bottle up his emotions and shoulder the world himself. Ichigo can appreciate the use for such a hush, but he can recognise how problematic carrying a burden can be. Wasn't it Tōshirō, after all, who told Ichigo to trust his friends?

“Truthfully,” the silvery shinigami continues, his willingness to disclose surprising the frown from Ichigo’s face. “I refrained from using Hyorinmaru’s power because I was reluctant to disobey orders. I felt that drawing my zanpakuto would… indisputably involve me in what was taking place.”

 _It is not my place to get involved with matters of the Soul Society_ , Tōshirō had said all those months ago.

“You didn’t unsheath your zanpakuto when you stepped in against Zaraki,” Ichigo remembers, thinking back to that bloody encounter. Zangetsu - the old man - had saved his arse, and Ichigo recalls how frustrating it had been for Tōshirō to step into that fight. He hadn't particularly _wanted_ to fight Zaraki by any means (especially now that the maniac doesn't _leave him alone_ ) but defeating the captain would have been a matter of pride, and some part of Ichigo wishes to know if he _could_ have one-upped the captain back then.

Still. That matters little now. What _is_ of interest if that Tōshirō is correct, and as Ichigo thinks back to his rather catastrophic breaking-and-entry into the Soul Society, just _how_ the Guard had intervened stands out amongst all else.

He hadn't drawn his blade at all.

“Did you… against Aizen?” Ichigo asks, almost certain that he knows the answer already.

Tōshirō cringes; that’s a no, and Ichigo doesn't find himself surprised.

“I… will admit to the mistake I made,” the Guard mutters, and the self-deprication _does_ surprise Ichigo; it rings in the same tone as before, back when Rangiku had kidnapped him from Kyoraku to threaten him for the first time.

“But you were obeying the King?”

“Yes,” Tōshirō says, eye roll revealing an astonishment at having done that much. ( _I am a bad influence_ , Ichigo thinks). “But in doing so I made an error that could have resulted in Aizen attaining what he desires. I made a poor decision, and bearing witness to Kyōka Suigetsu’s hypnosis was my punishment.”

“Punishment? Wait - but - _wait_ , you _saw_ Aizen’s shikai? His true shikai? But wasn't it all, like, an illusion?”

“Yes,” Tōshirō agrees in a sad sort of tone, bankai fading into a thousand shimmering pieces as the dragon’s reiatsu returns to slumber in his core. The snow melts alongside it, and around them both, the clearing seems to take one deep, forlornly breath.

“That is precisely the problem.”

 

 

 

( _My youngest,_ the King will beckon that night, summoning Tōshirō’s thoughts and dreams away. Ichigo will sleep on unawares - but the entire Royal Realm will, bar one - bar maybe two. _My Northern Intelligence in the sky. Come, listen to me, we have much to discuss, you and I_ ).

 

 

 

Ichigo knows he's in deep shit when he hobbles back from Nimaiya’s after obliterating an entire cliff with his bankai and Tōshirō’s hell butterflies don't come to greet him. At first, he thinks _Tōshirō’s_ pissed for some reason, the butterflies a thousand grumpy embodiments of their creator’s ire, but as Ichigo wobbles over with his heart in his throat to open the front door, a dozen of the synthesised insects bombard him from the rooftop. Squawking, he falls hard towards the door, yanking it open as he plummets onto the decking, and from inside the temple someone emits a noise of surprise, wooden prayer beads clacking together as they laugh.

Hell butterflies dive into Ichigo’s _shihakusho_ , scrambling away from Ichibē Hyōsube’s deep, rumbling merriment.

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, there you are,” the Monk Who Calls the Real Name says, cumbersome form of shadows and secrets stepping out onto the decking. Apparently unconcerned about trespassing through his colleague’s home, Hyōsube holds out a hand for Ichigo to take - or shake, perhaps, from the floor - and Ichigo stares at it for a beat too long, butterflies wiggling around against his chest.

“Err, thanks,” Ichigo says, hauling himself up. Zangetsu clacks against the deck as he does, but it is a comforting sound in the wake of Hyōsube’s laughter. His hand is hot with terror, and he hastily wipes it in the hope that the commander hasn't noticed. “You were looking for me?”

 _Lurking around waiting for me, more like,_ Ichigo doesn't say, trying not to shiver under Hyōsube’s piercing gaze.

“Hmm, yes. I believe I have stayed my hand long enough,” the Guard says cryptically, and Ichigo feels a rush of dread. “Come, child, I wish to ask you some questions.”

Hyōsube leaves no room for argument, dark eyed and dark tongued, ordering rather than suggesting that Ichigo follow, and it's this (more than a sheer lack of self-preservation, although he has that too) that makes Ichigo dig in his heels.

“What questions?”

“Do keep up,” Hyōsube says, disregarding Ichigo’s question as though it's but a whisper of a breeze against his oppressive air. He trots along on his _geta_ like a stallion or a bull, but Ichigo stands his ground, appreciating Tōshirō’s apprehension of the commander if Hyōsube treats everyone like _this._

“I'm not part of your Guard,” the substitute stresses, speaking to Hyōsube’s back. “I don't have to go with you.”

The Monk Who Calls the Real Name stops, turning as though it were possible he hadn’t noticed Ichigo refusing to follow.

“My Guard?” he asks, bushy eyebrows rising with the deep-set wrinkles of his brow. He clasps his hands behind his back, but Ichigo doesn’t feel any safer as Hyōsube’s haori shifts with the motion, revealing the hilt of his zanpakuto. “No, no, we are the _King’s_ Guard, and I assure you, Ichigo Kurosaki, that _everybody_ answers to the King. Even you.”

The commander’s smile is wide and shining an angelic white - but there’s nothing pleasant about it.

“I am sure He's great and all,” Ichigo replies, aiming for _casual_ but likely sounding _reckless_. “But I don't just give my loyalties to titles. What's your King done to earn my loyalty?”

“Well, you still have that foolhardy tongue, don't you boy?” Hyōsube says, and though he seems amused by Ichigo’s daring, it feels like a cruel enjoyment, like that of a panther using claws and fangs to toy with its night-stalked prey. Ichigo swallows, his throat clogging to Sahara dry, but he doesn’t so much as flinch as Hyōsube appears to double in size, thick, oozing reiatsu staining his presence twice-fold onto the sky.

 _This is an opponent we do not wish to antagonise_ , Zangetsu notes, wise tones of the Quincy ringing out from the trench knife.

 ** _Do it anyway_** , urges the other half - and Ichigo will look back on this moment as cold, hard evidence that he really _is_ sensible only when Tōshirō is around.

“I'm terrified, _Ichibē_ ,” he drawls, and though he might not have been then - stupidly, boldly as he was - he definitely _is_ in the next moment, hellish reiatsu exploding a tsunami of power across the kingdom. Reiatsu like nothing Ichigo has ever experienced pours from the commander, nightmarish energy harrowing and endlessly _dark_ oozing from the folds of his haori, the shadow of his being, the gaps and cracks in his merry demeanor. His smile is twisted with it, his eyes are small and all-seeing, and in the moment between one blink and the next, Ichigo’s eyes blowing wide, the darkness descends.

Ichigo would scream if he had the breath - if hands of shadows and sickness and silence were not tearing open his throat, clawing for vengeance from his tongue, his mouth, making him regret ever uttering the words; lungs raging, heart thundering within a chest that burns and burns and -

White _blazes_ in front of his eyes. As though dawn has exploded vengeful and bold, the pressure lifts, viscous hands crawling back to darkness and dusk. Ichigo wheezes, gasps, and gags as the pain ebbs away, his throat and chest and even his heart on fire, adrenaline of a manic terror pounding through his body. Someone is gripping his arm, their hand large and steady, grounding him to reality, preventing him from fleeing, and Ichigo clutches back, his other hand checking desperately at the wound on his throat.

There isn't one, but tears dribble from his eyes as though to douse a flame, his lungs burning as he coughs and splutters Chad’s name.

Chad grips him tighter, almost hurting him with the care, and the world rushes back into place before Ichigo’s eyes.

Tōshirō is there, shrouded white against Hyōsube’s black, but it isn't clear which Guard is the source of the demonic _weight_ in the air.

“I know you have no qualms against throwing your own name around so casually,” Hyōsube is saying, his poise the casual greeting of friends, utterly unruffled by the slab of ice stuck to his chin. Ichigo, rather, is momentarily thrown as the commander brushes snow from his beard - that is, until he spots Hyorinmaru drawn and raised before Tōshirō’s eyes.

“But do remember, Hitsugaya-san,” Hyōsube goes on, paying no attention to Ichigo’s widening expression of shock. “That the same cannot be said for mine.”

Although Tōshirō’s face is hidden from view, his voice speaks volumes: “He uttered it?” the silvery Guard breathes, and though they must be referring to Ichigo’s declaration of _Ichibē_ , the substitute cannot imagine why, dry heaving onto the decking and caring not for the goddamn commander’s goddamn _name._

Hyōsube’s face actually _sours_ , and that seems to be all the answer Tōshirō needs.

Hyorinmaru lowers - but, significantly, remains drawn. “You're satisfied now?” he asks.

“Yes,” Hyōsube says, still rubbing at the block of ice. It must be bothering him more than he would ever admit, but at any least it's certainly bothering _Ichigo_ , evidence of what could only have been Tōshirō’s _attack_ frozen just inches away from the commander’s neck.

“I do believe I've been surprised enough for today,” the Monk adds, eyes sweeping between Ichigo and Tōshirō both. Chad, too, receives a moment of consideration, and Ichigo feels his friend’s sheltering reiryoku twitch at the glance.

“I shall expect you for tea, later then, Hitsugaya-san,” Hyōsube concludes, the remnants of his oppressive reiatsu not quite taming as he makes to leave. “I am sure our King has relayed his desires to you.”

Tōshirō inclines his head in consent, but does not move to quell his bitter reiatsu until the commander is well out of sight. He turns, inspecting the teenagers with a wavering gaze, and then seems to breathe a little easier into the frigid air.

Ichigo is still staring. A hell butterfly wiggles up to poke cautiously out of his top. “You… just attacked him…”

“Yes, well,” Tōshirō says, a single, stuttering breath revealing his nerves. “I’m fortunate that I took him by surprise. If he had drawn Ichimonji…”

He sheathes Hyorinmaru, but his hand shakes as it lingers at the hilt. Chad, too, finally releases his hold, and while Ichigo may be known for his occasional bout of obliviousness, there is no mistaking the overwrought atmosphere.

He gets the idea.

“Thanks for - err - saving my arse,” he mumbles, shooting a sheepish expression at his two friends. “He seemed - um - pretty mad.”

 _Understatement_ , deadpans the pinch of the Guard’s brow.

“Hyōsube-dono does not like to be surprised,” Tōshirō notes. “And while this _is_ something to be proud of, _please_ refrain from testing him again.”

Ichigo certainly won't be, that's for sure. Once bitten, twice shy; Hyōsube is not a monster to be meddled with.

“I don't _feel_ particularly proud,” he grumbles. Rather, he feels indisputably _stupid_ , but at least neither of his rescuers have gone as far as coddling him. In fact, with Chad’s marble presence behind him and Tōshirō’s wildfire arctic before him, Ichigo feels safer than he has since the night Rukia glided in through his window and turned his life upside-down.

Still, poking Hyōsube with a metaphorical stick is not something he'll be trying again any time soon.

“You should be,” Tōshirō replies, eyes softening slightly. He approaches silently, something like pride - maybe not for himself, but Ichigo, Chad, and their friends - holding his head high. “Only those worthy of uttering his name are physically able to doing so. We do not refer to him as _Ichibē_ lightly.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And that you were able to do so is a marker of how far you've come. You should be proud - even though you were foolish enough to challenge Hyōsube-dono directly.”

Chad huffs an amused sound, and Ichigo elbows him.

“Like _you_ can talk,” Ichigo drawls, shooting an incredulous expression to the Guard as he guides them inside. “That ice’ll melt right?”

“Eventually,” Tōshirō sighs, somehow managing to articulate the single gasp as _oh god what have I done_?

Ichigo grins at his friend’s moment of regret. “He did look pretty dumb with his beard all frozen like that,” he says - because, well, it's _true_ , and the hallway rings with Tōshirō’s laughter before ceasing abruptly, the Guard looking quite horrified at the sound.

“We won't tell anyone,” Ichigo assures, still grinning. Behind him, Chad agrees with a soft noise and smoothly - _blatantly_ \- goes to shut the door.

 

 

 

Tōshirō goes as beckoned to his commander’s domain ( _I didn't mean to get you in trouble_ , Ichigo says, and though the Guard reassures him that nobody is in trouble, there is a tinge of sadness to Tōshirō’s tone that Ichigo doesn't like), and when he returns, that melancholy has only become a raincloud of reiatsu, regretful grey and blue.

Ichigo’s judgement of Hyōsube’s temper may have been poor, but he knows Tōshirō, and he knows without a doubt what has coloured the Guard’s reiryoku so.

“We're leaving - day after tomorrow,” he says, coming to sit beside his friend. It's late, but not so late that the lake has lost its glimmer for the night, dusk rolling in with yawns of pink and orange. There is a book discarded at Tōshirō’s side, spine-up in an attempt to be read, and Ichigo pads closer to replace the novel’s place at Tōshirō’s knee. Charcoal folds of his kimono heavy around him, he _thwumps_ as he settles, exhibiting none of the Guard’s usual grace when moving in the cascade of layers.

“Yes,” Tōshirō replies, as though there really had been any doubt that he hadn't known. “Tomorrow will start early - you should sleep. There's much to be done.”

Ichigo hums. “‘Cause you’re not coming back to Karakura with us, right?”

Bells chime. A cluster of hell butterflies settle down for sleep above the shinigami, their squabbling like rain pitter-pattering on the roof.

Tōshirō shakes his snowfall head as if to say, _I should have known._ “I’m sorry,” he breathes, the apology sincere and as though it is he who is at any fault. “I would, but…” He trails off; tries again. “I want you to be safe, but…”

Ichigo knows that - he _knows_ that.

“It’s okay,” he says, and Tōshirō’s murmur of _is it?_ encourages Ichigo to smile.

“Yeah, it is. This has been - like - the most hectic week ever, but we're a lot stronger now. Plus, we need to go back to class anyway, and I need to talk to my sisters, and really, hovering around Karakura would be pretty boring for you, right?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Tōshirō replies, nodding with the tone of one who needs convincing, and not a man who has to convince. Before he had even sat down, Ichigo had known how this conversation would go, and it amuses him to think that it is Tōshirō - for once - who seems so unsure.

 _Tōshirō_ who has conquered the skies and mastered the arctic plains, and who appeared one night like spirit, a spectre all Godly and bright, shrouded in mystery and etheral ways, but who truly isn’t that different from a young man, mortal and kind.

Who truly isn’t that different from Ichigo.

“I need to stay here,” Tōshirō explains, because _need_ and _want_ are two vastly different things. “It is true that Aizen won’t be able to make an Ōken, but there is still possibility that he may create something almost as powerful - something that could threaten the Soul King - and I have been asked to remain here and assume my guard.”

He says _asked_ as anybody else would grumble _ordered_ , and Ichigo wonders if Tōshirō ever imagined he would come to express such _sweetness_ to a trouble-magnetic teenager with hair that blazes gold.

(Probably not).

“Just in case, yeah?” Ichigo replies, smiling again. He really _isn't_ surprised by this declaration (in fact, he's more surprised that Hyōsube hasn’t kicked their vagabond group of adolescents of the Royal Realm already) but this doesn't make him any less sad as the twilight lulls close, a darkness far brighter than Hyōsube’s blanketing this northern kingdom.

“Will I see you again?” he asks.

Tōshirō looks away - sighs. “You don't need me anymore,” he says a matter-of-factly, some of the afternoon’s pride shining through. It's an evasive answer though, and Ichigo huffs a laugh, meaning _well, yeah_.

“What if I _want_ to see you again?” he says. What his expression is conveying he has no idea ( _come on Tōshirō, don't make me say it_ ), but as Tōshirō re-lifts his gaze to consider the question, the Guard’s eyebrows, too, raise up as though to say, _make you say what?_

Fortunately for Ichigo’s thundering heart, Tōshirō’s is kind.

“I’m sure something could be arranged,” the Guard says, and above them the hell butterflies tinker again, clearly liking the sound of that.

Ichigo would _shoosh_ them, but he's come to appreciate their weird empathetic abilities. Deciding that their merry chiming is a good sign, Ichigo presses on, figuring that it's now or never to see if he and Tōshirō are actually on the same page. Everyone else seems to think so, and just as Ichigo trusts his friends to watch his back, he guesses he's going to have to trust them with this too.

( _This_ \- whatever it will be).

“Like a date?” he asks - hopes, _prays_.

“I… didn't say that,” Tōshirō replies, reiatsu drawing close within him, a dragon curling cold and cautious into the safety of his cave. The withdrawal is the thrust of a blade through Ichigo’s chest; he also retreats, rethinks before following through, but his headstrong nature implores him to persevere.

Conscious of how his heart has taken a dangerous leap into his mouth, Ichigo is careful not to blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “What would you say then?” he asks, trying not to sound _needy_ in any fashion, and Tōshirō considers an answer for a moment, his pondering a silence cruel and gruelling like the carve of a knife. Ichigo won’t ever admit to holding his breath (but he holds his breath), and when the Guard seems to find whatever it is he searches for in the substitute’s purpling expression, his glacial reiatsu unfurls just slightly, a brush of ice as tentative as the look in Tōshirō’s eyes.

“An... investment of my free time?”

And Ichigo - _laughs_.

“Do you even _have_ free time?” he teases, bolder than before, and Tōshirō smiles too, looking no less unsure about this treacherous territory that they are coming to tread.

“I will once you're out of my hair, I assure you,” he deadpans.

Ichigo is too utterly _in love_ to take offence. “I like your hair,” he argues; _I like your face, too_ , he just about refrains from adding.

“Yours is certainly not unappealing to look upon,” Tōshirō replies, blurting words he probably intended to be smooth, and Ichigo laughs even more, clutching his sides in an attempt to restrain his amusement before it wakes their slumbering friends.

“That was the dumbest thing you've ever said,” Ichigo wheezes - and yep, there are tears streaming down his face.

An eye roll; a familiar response to familiar teasing. “You said it first.”

“Okay, that is _not_ what I said.”

“Enlighten me to the differences then.”

Ichigo plans to _enlighten_ him all right. “I said _I want to kiss you_ ,” he dares.

“No you didn't,” Tōshirō insists, momentarily missing the point _entirely_ , but after a pause in which even the King himself can hear Ichigo face-palming, his brain catches up with a rising, scarlet blush.

“Oh,” he says, and Ichigo’s muffled reply goes something like, _ghrrahakkaha!?_

“Was that a yes?” he asks, hoping for clarification after Tōshirō _laughs in his_ _face_. He’s fairly certain that laughter translates to something like confirmation, only, Tōshirō just _keeps_ going, and Ichigo can't decide whether to appreciate the sound or curse at his rising sexual frustration.

“ _Yes_ ,” the Guard eventually manages to say - and how silly they must look, their faces tear-splattered and red. “That was a yes.”

“Good, well, I mean, great,” Ichigo blubbers, clueless as to what one is actually supposed to say in response to that. Getting this far honestly hadn’t been on his list of things to do, but since they’re both here talking about _kissing_ …?

(Is this the part where they kiss).

“Come on,” he pleads, smiling because he's hopeless not to. “ _Stop laughing_ , you're making it hard to kiss you.”

(Truly this is, like, the best kind of dilemma).

“Oh, I apologise,” Tōshirō says, and if he _does_ actually sound a little sorry, he doesn’t give Ichigo nearly enough time to think about it, one icicle hand hot with nerves reaching up to glide pale fingertips across Ichigo’s neck, the pulse beating there, and the sharp line leading up from Ichigo’s jaw to his _cheek_ -

They -

Don’t kiss - but rather they -

Meet. (Collide).

Somewhere in the middle of their hearts.

 

 

 

Oh now – they are.

 

 

 

One world and all its stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ~~And waiting so long, oh god.~~ I'm planning on rounding everything up in an epilogue, which I will honestly write... at some point... :P
> 
> Please leave a review as you go~


	11. Ichigo VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I actually kinda hate time-skip epilogues but hey here we go!

 

[Epilogue - 2 Years Later]

“Come now, Ichigo, I’m not completely incompetent,” Kyoraku sighs with a cheerful, little tune, sheathed end of his zanpakuto prodding the protesting eighteen year old out of the office. The First Division headquarters are a step up in both size and anonymity from the cluttered, flower-spilled space in which Kyoraku used to work at the Eighth Division, but Nanao is nothing if not _competent_ enough for the entire squad, and she does appreciate any opportunity to vent her ire at her superior. The newly-dubbed Captain-Commander, for his part, has long-since perfected the art of smiling in the face of her fury so that battle-weary crow’s feet crinkle about his eyes, but ever since Ichigo unofficially joined the squad, he now shoots him a cry for help whenever the lieutenant isn’t looking.

Sometimes, Ichigo is kind enough to step between the captain and lieutenant, pacifying the argument with a cruelly-wielded puppy-dog expression to Nanao and a swift kick to the shin for the captain. Most of the time, however, he just reclines back onto the sofa and enjoys watching the millennia-old commander squirm.

In this situation, however, where it is _he_ who Kyoraku and Nanao are ganging up against, Ichigo doesn’t stand a chance.

“Sensei, you have _three_ lieutenants,” he drawls, flashing a smile as the captain ushers him out of the room. Nanao, forever studious at her desk, peers over her glasses with a librarian-worthy stare, eyes rolling as though to agree with Ichigo wholeheartedly, and Kyoraku titters that playful laugh as a particularly wicked sweep of his zanpakuto knocks Ichigo into the doorway.

“Now that’s hardly true,” Kyoraku argues, lying through his teeth like they all know. Nanao may be the official First Division lieutenant now that her captain has been promoted, but that doesn’t mean she’s the only one who gets roped into dealing with Kyoraku’s alcoholic tendencies and sleeping on the job.

“Lisa-chan comes and she goes,” he adds wistfully, as though he really minds or as if this is anything but flimsy evidence for his point. “But Nanao-chan looks after me.”

“And what about _me_?” Ichigo retorts, slamming a hand against the door to stop the captain from sliding it shut into his face. Other First Division members skirt around him as they busy themselves with duties, but Ichigo can feel their reiryoku buzzing with amusement, a dozen tiny candlelights or flowers blooming as they pass. Safety and happiness had seemed so unreachable during the peak of the war that raged on far longer than they were expecting; a winter war, the former Captain-Commander had predicted, preparing his troops over the skies of Karakura that frigid November day. That battle had stretched on and on, the Seireitei, the Visored, Urahara, Ichigo and their friends rallying together, but even that had not been enough to put an end to Aizen’s assault in a single, bloody swoop.

It had been ambitious of them to think that the Espada were anything less than elite. The onslaught, the casualties, and the hours waiting for miracles at bedsides, wondering if friends and comrades alike were to take their last breaths had been a violent wake-up call for the Karakura crew. No amount of training with the Royal Guard, hidden away in a realm so entirely untouched by bloodshed and tyranny as they had been, could have prepared them for the frontlines. Sure, they had invaded Soul Society almost single-handedly to rescue Rukia and punch half of the captains in the face, but their conquests and battles and spars within the Royal Realm were nothing compared to the horrors of war.

Months had felt like years. Ichigo is sure that he has aged far greater than his two years, just as he was sure, at one point, when the streets of Karakura had been shattered and crumbled around him, that he wasn’t ever going to reach eighteen.

Ichigo will never take peacetime for granted, not now. The Soul Society lost so many people to Aizen’s ambitions, soldiers, healers, and civilians alike, but at the heart of their differences and similarities alike, they are a nation that refuses to bow to misery and war.

(A bit like how Ichigo had refused to put up with Hyōsube’s shit, really).

“I’m always grateful for your assistance, Ichigo,” Kyoraku says, but Ichigo learned long ago how to discern between his sensei’s bullshit and his sensei’s _truthful_ bullshit.

“Just like how I was _grateful_ to be your student?”

“Hmm, yes, something like that,” Kyoraku replies, before quite unhesitantly unsheathing his zanpakuto and driving in into the doorframe just millimetres from Ichigo’s head.

“Please refrain from brawling in the office,” Nanao reprimands, but Ichigo has already fired a retaliating kido and earned another swipe from Kyokan Kyougetsu for his efforts, which he promptly ducks under without so much as batting an eyelash.

“Go,” the Captain-Commander orders, meaning it fondly despite the razor edge of his blade. “Shoo.”

Ichigo laughs but obediently begins to _shoo_. “Yeah, yeah, see you later old man!” he says, calling back as he takes off down the corridor. Zangetsu’s dual blades _thump-thump-thump_ at his sides, but they are a familiar, welcome presence like the renovated walls of the First Division around him. Damage to the Seireitei had been great - some divisions were entirely destroyed from wave-after-wave of Aizen’s elite, and the First Division had suffered more than most. Ichigo has been spending a large chunk of his free time helping with repairs and administration, but with his life down in the Human World turning on without him, he cannot stay forever.

He doesn’t _want_ to stay forever. Not yet, at any least.

Chad is waiting for him at the First Division gates - and with him is Rukia, the Thirteenth Division lieutenant’s band perpetually worn proudly on her arm. Her hair as grown a little, although her legs have definitely _not_ , and standing next to Chad she seems more of a midget than usual, even with her head held high with pride. She has done Ukitake and the Thirteenth Division a world of good, that’s for sure, and she is just as protective of her captain as she was before, albeit now with the power to order him to bed rest, should he need it.

“Took your time,” she teases, bumping shoulders with Ichigo affectionately. Scratch that, _bumping shoulders_ is just slightly ambitious in the context of their height difference, but that doesn’t stop Rukia from driving an elbow into his gut.

Ichigo wheezes. “ _Christ_ , you know what sensei’s like. Nanao’s terrifying for putting up with him for so long.”

“True,” Rukia concedes, and even Chad inclines his shaggy head of hair. “I just thought I’d come and see you off. Rangiku-san sends her regards, by the way, and Renji says _wish you were here_.”

“Renji just wants anyone but him to be in charge of the newbies,” Ichigo amends, and their laughter rebounds around the crumbled and reconstructed walls of Seireitei without any inhibitions, the trio chatting and bickering all the way to the senkaimon and the Human World beyond.

Neither Orihime nor Ishida are in the Soul Society today - the former slaving over university applications and exam preparation, and the latter out grocery shopping for snacks and junk food for tonight - but they also divide their time between the worlds of the living and the dead, both of them to be found more often than not learning under Unohana’s watchful eye. Chad spends most of his time wherever he is needed, and he is now a familiar face in almost every division, who are always grateful for his willingness to complete even the most tedious of tasks.

“Say _hi_ to your sisters for me,” Rukia says, once the senkaimon gate are groaning with the strain of tearing open the worlds. Two hell butterflies bob over her head, their wings a welcoming chime to bid passageway into the gloom, and Ichigo holds out his hand to encourage the tiny spiritual machine closer, smiling in the face of its hazardous wobble through the air.

For creatures built from the blueprints of Tōshirō’s design, Ichigo has always believed them to be so remarkably different from the boisterous, nosy little critters that tumble around the Royal Realm. These ones don’t puff into a smattering of cold reiatsu and snow when somebody accidentally squishes them (or when an Arrancar tears its bloodied claws through their wings, for example), but there’s something else about them that _lacks_ ; something that only Tōshirō’s time in the Royal Realm has designed.

“Aizen did not get his hands on an Oken,” Chad reminds, reading Ichigo’s thoughts straight off of his face. _The Royal Realm is safe_ , is what he means to say, what Ichigo hears. And if the Royal Realm is safe, then so should be Tōshirō, who can tinker and experiment with his hell butterflies as he likes, now that the threat to the Soul King is no more.

Still, Ichigo cringes; he’s only gotten more transparent over the last two years, but once again Chad is swift to put his concerns at ease. Truly, Ichigo expects nothing else - they’ve been to hell and back together, fighting side-by-side through thick and thin, and there is no one else he would rather have at his back than solid, no-nonsense Chad.

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, watching the Seireitarian hell butterfly flutter away. The senkaimon will not remain open forever, and it’s about time they returned to the Human World anyway. Yuzu’s making dinner, and there are plans to crash at Orihime’s tonight before her entry exam tomorrow. Ichigo’s friends and family are safe, and that is more than he could ever have asked before when he took up his blade against Aizen to protect the people he loves.

“Catch ya later, Rukia.”

She smirks, a sight Ichigo has come to dread over the last few years. “Later, idiot. Don’t do anything dumb.”

Ichigo sticks out his tongue, nearly licking a hell butterfly by accident as it prods him to get a move on. Before he met Tōshirō, he would merely brush the pesky thing away, but Ichigo can’t deny that he’s grown somewhat attached to the creatures, even if they’re not the ones that inhabit the Royal Realm.

“When have I ever done anything like that?”

Chad coughs. Rukia’s uproarious laughter follows them deep into the senkaimon, reverberating out into Karakura’s skies when the passageway clicks and clacks and slides open at the other end. It’s almost autumn in Japan, and the trees are blossoming brown. Ichigo flips the bird at the closing spiritual gates, and the chilly afternoon wind bites at his skin as though Rukia can see him from a world away.

Knowing her - she probably can.

The Kurosaki household is a ruckus of sound when Ichigo arrives. Clambering through the window has only become a perfected art since the war, but that doesn’t mean that Kon is often ready and waiting to return the body he inhabits. Ichigo doesn’t mind, not really - ever since coming clean to his sisters about the Soul Society and the Royal Realm (and bullying his father into doing the same), Kon has been free to act as himself while in the privacy of the house. A difficult change for sisters, no doubt, especially Yuzu who cannot perceive the moments in which the switch occurs, but a change that has been welcomed as another Kurosaki quirk. Kon, for his part, is still on his best behaviour when guests and non-aware humans are around, but when there _isn’t_ anybody around…

A bellow of LO _SER!!_ resounds up from the living room. Console controllers clatter in a fit of rage, and there is a following roar of frustration from Ichigo’s body - in Kon’s higher, whining tones - as Karin _woop-whoops_ her success and almost tumbles over the sofa in her cheer. Kon’s avatar dies a pitiful death on the TV screen. Ichigo doesn’t feel sorry for him _at all_ , although the expression of childish misery that contorts his human face as Kon laments his defeat is decidedly uncomfortable to look at.

Halfway through striking a victory pose, Karin freezes at the sight of her brother in the doorway. “Ichi-nii! Come to redeem your dignity, huh?” She laughs, teenage confidence idealising her to invincibility. She throws Kon’s abandoned controller across the room before Ichigo can muster up a reply, and the mod soul releases a nervous chuckle from where he is trying to hide his embarrassment far under the sofa.

Ichigo rolls his eyes. _Kon_ is an embarrassment.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, figuring _what the hell_ and flopping down next to his sister. He pokes her in the side with the controller, laughing at her disgruntled huff as she swats him away. “Gonna go easy on your big brother?”

Kon laughs. A gleam sparkles in Karin’s eye. “ _As if_. Come on, pick a character for me to _slaughter_.”

By the time Yuzu sticks her head into the living room to see what all of the yelling is about, Ichigo has had his arse handed to him more times than he can count, and Kon is cackling wickedly far out of Karin’s murderous reach.

“Onii-chan! How was Rukia-san and Rangiku-san and everyone?”

Ichigo watches Karin’s avatar blast his from the screen and decides that he doesn’t envy whatever captain eventually ends up with his sister under their command. _An unstoppable menace_ , comes to mind whenever he thinks of her working up through the ranks, cowering man and woman alike until she achieves what her heart desires.

Yuzu will be the same, of that Ichigo is sure. Kurosakis don’t take shit from anybody.

“Hey Yuz, it’s all good. How was class? Come beat your sister a few times, would you? She’s on a winning streak.”

“Oh?” says Yuzu, innocent eyelashes fluttering.

“ _No_ ,” breathes Karin, before pouncing on her brother to wrestle the controller away.

 

 

 

“She’s not _still_ working, is she?”

Ishida rolls his eyes at the exclamation, gesturing further into Orihime’s apartment with a flat expression. _Really_ , the pinch of his eyebrows drawl, dipping low behind the top frame of his glasses, _do you have to ask?_ and Ichigo can only suppose that, _no_ , in fact, it _had_ been a stupid question, before thrusting the cake tin at the exasperated Quincy. The brownies Yuzu has made are still warm, and there’s no way that Orihime _won’t_ be eating them tonight, exam tomorrow or no exam tomorrow.

Textbooks and paper clutter the bedroom, empty pens and dried-up highlights scattered all over the carpet. For somebody who hates working at a desk, Orihime doesn’t exactly help herself by transforming her room into a death-trap, and Ichigo hops his way inside to where Orihime’s slippers can just be seen poking out from a pile of books.

“Hime, gimme a sign you’re alive,” Ichigo says, shifting the top layer of tomes aside to reveal a scruffy, tangerine mop of hair. A muffled, _Ichigo?_ drifts up through the hardbacks in reply, and Ichigo has just enough time to raise a ring binder in defence before Orihime scrambles out from under the pile.

She flusters through a greeting, hurrying to try and return some order to the ridiculous number of books about her. Ichigo watches her move the same notepad back and forth across different piles for a full minute before - gently, mind you - whacking her crown with the binder, and the noise she emits is astonished and wounded as she cradles the top of her head.

“Brownies,” Ichigo says by way of explanation, offering his friend a hand. “Yuzu made ‘em just for you.”

“Yuzu-chan did?” Orihime replies, glancing regretfully at her work. “I could just finish these flash cards…”

“You’re gonna ace it tomorrow, we all know that,” Ichigo reassures, hauling her up. Papers spill into the space she abandons, pens scattering underfoot, but the promise of Yuzu’s baking has swayed Orihime just as Ichigo knew it would, and she allows herself to be coaxed from the room. Putting a stop to her frantic studying is, after all, the entire reason that they’ve all invited themselves into Orihime’s home, but as Tatsuki rightly put it when Chad expressed his doubts, if Orihime didn’t want them to talk some sense into her, then she shouldn’t have given them all copies of her house keys.

“Face it, you’ve been outvoted,” Tatsuki says, shoving a plate into the nervous fiddle of Orihime’s hands. She begins to pile crisps and sausage rolls and all manner of junk food onto it, and Orihime is helpless but to laugh as Ishida unwittingly opens the soda that Ichigo may or may not have shaken-up just ten minutes before.

It doesn’t quite _explode_ , but it does do a pretty neat job of soaking the Quincy, fridge, tablecloth, and Chad’s sleeve from top-to-bottom. Ichigo is a little guilty about that last one, but Tatsuki is beside her with laughter and Orihime nearly swallows a pork-pie whole, so Ishida’s ire is worth it.

“Screw you, Kurosaki,” he grumbles, expression dripping with disdain. It complements his sopping wet hair and shirt, that’s for sure, and only Chad is kind enough to fetch a tea-towel amidst the round of laughter in the kitchen.

The evening only descends into chaos from there. Copious amounts of junk food and soda are consumed as they bicker about which movie to watch first - do they start at the _beginning_ of a series, or just passionately skip to and quote their favourite parts? - and popcorn is thrown in a mock-kido battle that trashes the entire apartment. They will, of course, clean it while Orihime is sitting her exam, but studying is the last thing on all of their minds as they squish themselves into the sofa and argue over the remote.

Movie nights have long been a tradition since the war drew to a violent and catastrophic close. Sometimes the apartment is full of humans and shinigami and Visored alike (Shinji and Orihime get along _swimmingly_ , and that’s almost as terrifying as her fondness towards Hyōsube - something which even Urahara cannot understand), but tonight is one of the quieter nights, if their uproar is to be believed. Film choices steer clear of horror or anything with a military theme, but that doesn’t mean that the vagabond group of friends are challenged for a good time. No, in fact, chick flicks are slowly becoming _everybody’s_ guilty pleasure - even Renji, who had to be sat on to get through the entire movie - and they lose themselves to cheesy lines and relatable comedy until the sun dips low, streetlights a warm, incessant glow of oranges and peaches into the night.

“Hey guys,” Tatsuki interrupts, speaking quietly and yet so abruptly that she may as well have shouted over the TV. Something beyond the room has captured her attention, and Ichigo peers around her shoulder to follow her line of sight, instantly rising into alertness as his friends - as those who fought by his side - stir around him.

There’s always a chance that they might be attacked. Even now, with the war a terrible memory behind them, Hollow and Arrancar prowl the streets, hulking, monstrous shapes like hellish shadows skulking the streets of the town.

Yet, Tatsuki shakes her hand, plopping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “It’s cool,” she assures, expression confused by untroubled, as though she has seen something pleasantly surprising through the window and into the gloom. “But… doesn’t it look like it’s snowing?”

Popcorn crunches between teeth. Somebody slurps a cup of tea. Ichigo almost kills himself in his haste to reach the window, practically concussing himself against the ledge when he slides on the rug and somersaults into the wall. He curses wildly enough that Orihime’s Soten Kisshun bursts into being like a sparkler and rushes to help him, and there’s a mutter of _idiot_ from Ishida that Ichigo ignores as he wrenches open the window to see for himself.

It is - it’s _snowing_.

It’s autumn, Soten Kisshun’s pastel glow emphasising the fading greens, the crisp browns, and the distant oranges of the world around them. It’s not cold enough to warrant the dusting of ice across the windowsill, the first cracks of a wintry breath over the glass. The night is quiet, moonlit and clear, and as Ichigo sticks his head out further, he notices something peculiar down the street - a _lack_ of something down the street.

It’s only snowing _from this roof_.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes, wondering how he has missed that familiar chime of arrival, that melodic ring to wingbeats in the air. Hell butterflies bobbing around or not, there is only one explanation for this gentle January chill, and Ichigo swears that his heart is in his throat - in his mouth, on his tongue, pounding and beating and waiting _so long_ that he almost cannot find the words to express how it feels to watch Hyorinmaru’s reiatsu trickle down like rain.

Ichigo smiles wide, sure that his cheeks are burning as brightly as his soul.

“ _Tōshirō_ , stop hanging around on the roof and come inside you idiot.”

There’s a sigh from the rooftop, as though Tōshirō is the one suffering indignation from the ridiculous, overprotective behaviour of his socially recluse somewhat-boyfriend. Ichigo is laughing well before the sounds of weighted, kimono fabric shuffling over the tiles arises, and then only continues to laugh as a heaping of snow dollops off of the roof as Tōshirō slides into sight.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” the Guard insists, perched on the edge as delicately as his butterflies, robes like a waterfall spilling his presence back into the calm and chaos of Ichigo’s life. He looks _stunning_ , absolutely, beautifully _stunning_ and Ichigo is _stunned_ , but not enough not to recognise that that has to be, quite frankly, the dumbest excuse that he has ever heard.

“Tōsh,” he greets with a smile, meaning both _are you serious_ and _I can’t believe you’re here_. “It’s _snowing_.”

The Guard blinks as though the Human World weather has surprised him. “Ah. Yes, so it is. Do forgive me.”

He doesn’t go as far as to put a stop to the snow, however, bidding an awkward pause as the snowflakes continue to crystallise into existence, but maybe his reiryoku is just as untamable as Ichigo’s - happy and grateful and glowing white-hot with this unexpected reunion.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ichigo assures, speaking to himself just a little bit. He hasn’t seen Tōshirō for almost _two years_ \- he’s allowed to be stupid, really stupid, because Tōshirō looks _great_. Plus, when they parted in the Royal Realm, they were both fully aware of their duties - Tōshirō to the King, and Ichigo to his family - and though the war dragged on for longer than they could have expected, neither of them are cruel enough to place blame.

It’s not as though they were entirely out of contact. Sure, Ichigo would have loved to see Tōshirō, talk with him face-to-face, fight by his side and explore this new (still new, perhaps) relationship with the time that the Royal Realm did not give them, but war doesn’t care about how much you love somebody. Settling on the occasional exchange through a communication line, a hell butterfly, and even using word of mouth and many messengers in between had not been ideal, but Ichigo had been glad that Tōshirō was alive and well above all else, even if he couldn’t see that for himself.

He knows Tōshirō feels the same.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Ichigo says, beckoning the shinigami inside. Whatever reason Tōshirō is finally here, there’s no need for them to discuss it through the window like this, and though his friends aren’t saying anything, Ichigo can hear them mumbling about the draft.

Still, Tōshirō hesitates, silver fringe sweeping over his face. Snow shunts about him as he shifts on the ledge, indecision clear and crisp in the sleet pitter-pattering into Ichigo’s skin. “I’m sure I can think of a few things.”

Ichigo just about resists the urge to grab the immaculate end of Tōshirō’s kimono and yank him inside. “Well, _I_ can’t,” he says with an easy laugh, stepping back to give the Guard some room. Puddles of water dot the floor beneath the window. “You wanna join us?”

“ _Say yes_!” comes a shout from inside, and Tōshirō huffs, reluctance wavering as he peeks inside to see the others waiting expectantly, Orihime gesturing to the seat that Ichigo had vacated. Chad says something about _making more tea_ and disappears into the kitchen before Tōshirō can argue, and since propriety ensures that his evening plans are now sealed, there is nothing Tōshirō can do but slip inside.

Ichigo’s friends are the _best_.

“I haven’t seen you for so long,” he says, aiming for conversational and probably failing spectacularly as he finally shuts the window, shaking away Tōshirō’s lingering reiatsu. Chilly, the room will likely remain with the Guard’s wintry presence, but there are enough blankets to make up for the arctic realm that oozes from Tōshirō’s soul.

“I know,” agrees the Guard, brows furrowing apologetically. “My last message -”

Ichigo waves a dismissive hand, wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth now. War isn’t exactly an ideal topic to discuss with the boyfriend that he hasn’t seen for two years. “I got it, yeah. Few months ago though. You know I couldn’t reply, but it’s cool.”

Crow’s feet lines crinkle around Tōshirō’s eyes. “I know - but I’m glad you received it anyway.”

“Me too.”

They pause, mirroring each other’s smiles even as silence falls between them. In the kitchen, the kettle begins to whistle and Chad clanks around with the crockery, and on the TV, the protagonist is frozen like the pair of shinigami before her.

Luckily for Ichigo, he has his friends to back him up.

“Hey lovebirds,” Tatsuki calls, lobbing a pillow across the room. With a _whumph_ , it strikes Ichigo straight across the face like a goddamn _brick_ , but she doesn’t look at all apologetic as his head reels from the blow. “You’re cute and sickening, get over here - there’s a movie waiting.”

“ _Tatsuki-chan_ ,” Orihime whines, hushing her best friend far too late to prevent the _second_ pillow-assault. “It’s okay, they need time to make up!”

“Perhaps they should consider doing this in private,” Ishida suggests dryly.

It’s hard to tell in the low light of the TV, but Ichigo is pretty sure that Tatsuki’s eyebrows _waggle_. “Private, huh?” she laughs, elbowing the Quincy with an _uh-huh_ that has Chad rumbling a laugh from the kitchen.

Ishida splutters, unsuccessfully hiding that blunder behind his glasses. Ichigo has known his friends too long to bother feeling embarrassed, but the bridge of Tōshirō’s nose warms to a rosey pink as the teenagers joke and bicker across the sofa. Sheer _affection_ swells up inside of Ichigo - he’s missed Tōshirō so much, his wit, his laughter, his stupid, wonderful hair - and he kisses him before he can think better of it.

It’s just a peck, right there on Tōshirō’s scarlet cheek, but spontaneous enough, apparently, that Tōshirō seems to forget to feel embarrassed at the laughter. Instead, he looks to Ichigo with such wonder that Ichigo can only imagine that he’s done something untoward, but then he smiles small but sincere, two years’ worth of tension and fear ebbing away. Chad returning with the tea only heightens this ease, and as Tōshirō takes the cup and settles into the group of friends, Ichigo is one side and Orihime on the other, the sofa stretching impossibly to accommodate them all, he seems not the otherworldly, unreachable Guard of the Zero Division anymore.

He’s just - Tōshirō.

(Even if he _is_ practically wearing a duvet).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And seriously, thanks for waiting omg.
> 
> Just to say, I'm officially done with the Bleach fandom now. This has been a long, long time coming, but I really, really can't see myself writing any more Bleach fic, Ichigo/Toshiro or gen or whatever. It's been six and a half long years, lemme tell you, and it's been awesome and I loved it, but I've got absolutely no motivation to write for this anymore.
> 
> Thanks to everyone that's ever read, kudoed (kudo...ed?) or commented on my work!! Really, I wouldn't have written it without you guys :) I'm still going to be writing fanfiction, of course (will I ever stop, who knows), but now that I've rounded this mammoth undertaking off, I'm not going to be starting any other Bleach fics. Likely ever. I feel like enkindle is the best possible fic I could have ended it with though :)
> 
> See you around!! And, as ever, please leave a comment as you go!


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